


The Twisting of a River

by ToodleOfDeeth



Series: The Water [1]
Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Banter, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Virginity Kink, hint of:, no homo guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-26 01:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12545464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToodleOfDeeth/pseuds/ToodleOfDeeth
Summary: "I want to get it over with.”“‘Get it over with’? Scripps, you sound like you're going for an injection, not like you're about to get fucked.”





	1. Chapter 1

His gut twists and turns at night, like a snake within him, picking apart his choices with a pair of tweezers by lamplight. It’s gotten harder and harder to sleep - Scripps hasn't felt this way since the day before his final exam, the one that actually got him to Oxford.

He first checks his health (No weight loss or gain, no changes in diet, and no increase in stress that he knows of). Then he checks his journal (he hasn't done anything differently. nothing has changed. _Nothing has changed_ ). And finally, after three nights of the snake writhing within him, he realises what has upset him. Conversations he’d had nearly every day all revolved around one specific thing, a thing that as far as he was aware of was to do with himself and no one else he or his conversation partners knew about.

One by one his mates approach the subject, little motivation to their name aside from seeing him flustered or genuine curiosity.

The next day it presents itself again…

_“What makes you so sure you can do it? You're not above the rest of us, you know.”_

And the day after that…

_“You’ve got to have sex at some point, Scripps. You’ll waste away.”_

And even the day after…

_“Here comes Scripps, the neighbourhood prude. Poor boy won't let himself fuck. Only God knows why.”_

Then the day after that, when the wind howls in the afternoon and the trees tap against the window, Scripps feels a climax of some sorts. The end of everything. The end of the vow he’d taken seven years ago. He was twelve then, when everyone he knew went on to become who they were now. He turned on the lamp at his desk. Was it the end? He wasn't going to jump into action quite yet. He wasn't even going to do anything about it. Scripps only knew that should somehow the need arise he wouldn't deny himself further.

But he wasn't even intending on telling anybody, but when the near-silent knock echoed from the door around the room Scripps didn't hesitate in moving to stand, the thoughts still on his mind. With a snatch at the keys on the windowsill, he approached the door to his flat, unrest circling his head like a fog. With a creak the door swung open.

“Oh, hello there Pos,” he stated more than said, visible shock on his face at being disturbed at such a late time in the day. He motioned to the rest of the flat, “Do you want to come in?”

“I- Yes, please.” Posner began to move inside without a second look behind him. He stated, as he toed the back of his shoes, “It looks like rain out there and the busses have stopped. Shouldn't last more than five minutes, I don't think. You don't mind me waiting here, no?”

Scripps shook his head and squeezed past David so that he could reach his tiny kitchen, he pulled the curtains closed as he did, but weather it were to block out the approaching storm or his own thoughts he didn't know. Behind him he could hear Posner kick his shoes against the wall, an old habit he’d gained by watching Scripps. The sound of his footsteps followed Scripps into the kitchen. In a vague attempt to look busy, Scripps filled the kettle and asked, “Tea?” and proceeded to put it on to boil at the hum of an answer.

Busying himself with the tea helped, but the unshakable feeling of being tested lingered, like the warmth of another body. He struggled to come up with a different simile. The one he thought of seemed much too personal and yet not personal enough. Posner took the milk out of the fridge without a word, and the quiet tapping of rain sounded from the window as the kettle flicked off, leaving them to realise the emptiness of the flat.

Posner took off his coat and held it to his chest. He leaned over a little, letting a smooth slip of stomach out into the light, and if Scripps were a stronger man he may have put his hand there as he gave Posner his tea. He needed to stop thinking for a while, and maybe Posner could be the answer to his problems; Scripps motioned to the sitting room, a question on his tongue that never came forth.

“How are you, Scripps? I feel like I’m seeing less of you as of late,” Posner asked, making himself comfortable in the armchair by the window. He took a minute sip of tea before setting his mug on one of the coasters on the ring-stained table.

Scripps sat back on the sofa, cradling his own mug in his hands - appreciating the warmth. In around two split seconds Scripps assessed his two choices: to tell Posner his predicament or to tell him he was fine. Technically neither were lies. He took in a breath, and as Posner’s eyes snapped to him he said, “I’m okay, I suppose.”

It took Posner less than a second to see through his not-quite-a-lie. “You're not, are you? What’s the matter? It’s not something I've done is it?” He worried.

Automatically Scripps replied: “No, it’s nothing to do with you,” But then he cursed to himself for implying that there was _something_ wrong, only it _wasn't to do with_ _Posner_. He honestly was terrible at all this confession stuff, especially when there was someone watching, waiting, for him to spill his guts on the carpet. He sputtered on, “There’s nothing wrong. And even if there were something wrong - which there isn't, it wouldn't be about you. Just - don't worry about it.”

In a sudden bout of confidence, Scripps looked to Posner’s face, but then immediately looked away. The feeling of David’s unimpressed frown was already imprinted in his mind however, and he knew what was going to be said next.

“Scripps, you know you can tell me if something is wrong, right?”

He took in a sharp breath, “Of course,” he said, going for nonchalant but coming across much too shaky for his liking.

Pos continued, “I'm aware you may not want to, and I'm not going to say you _have_ to, but in my experience it's much easier to share your problems with someone you can trust than it is to bottle them up. And I know I said this already but _seriously_ Scripps I know you're content to sit and suffer but it will be much better to share than suffer emotional constipation as you are now.”

“I'm not emotionally constipated,” he stated but hated the way he said it. Pos raised his eyebrows and _damn Posner with his mind reading skills._ The wind shuddered and the rain began to pelt harder against the window, and though Scripps wasn't the type to believe in outside influence, it felt like the weather was egging him into sharing more than he ever wanted or intended to. The fact that Posner had sat himself beneath the window, the source of his discomfort, was coincidence and nothing else. He was sure if it.

He should have done what he'd intended in the first place; he should have written it down, found his own meaning in his own words without outside influence.

Posner moved suddenly, like he knew that if he didn't act now Scripps would freeze up forever. It pained Scripps when he realised Posner was probably right. But then David popped down next to him, abandoning his own cup of tea by the window, and leaned into Scripps’ space with the idea of providing comfort of some sort. Although they had been friends for what seemed like forever, Posner was still unfamiliar with the knowledge that Scripps did indeed despise close contact, yet somehow Posner managed to forgo this and get right into his weak spots.

It appeared that although Scripps had lived in this body for twenty-one years he still did not recognise all of his own weaknesses, and apparently one of those weaknesses was others practically sitting themselves in his lap in order to gain sensitive information. He became stiffer, body curling slightly in an attempt at recoil. Obviously he was not immune to any of Posner’s tricks, because as soon as he made himself comfortable with his feet in Scripps’ lap David began to pester.

“What's the matter, Scrippsy? What's gotten you in a rut?”

He began to squirm, “Posner,” he began again, his weak attempts at getting Posner’s legs off of him failing, “Posner please-”

“Can't you tell me? Is it something weird?” Scripps shook his is head before Pos could even finish. Pos raised his eyebrow at him and _damn Posner always knew how to make him feet three feet tall._

“Tell me-”

“I'm giving up the celibacy,” he blurted out, “I've come to terms with it on my own, don't worry, and I'm not going to rush in like Dakin would, but it’s something I've been thinking about recently and it’s gotten to the point where I think - I know it’s better to get it over with rather than to sit on it forever, like you said, it's not like I should just... just keep to myself,” Scripps appeared to stumble over himself, and in the pause Pos removed his legs from Scripps’ lap to lean further towards him. It felt like Pos were inspecting him, trying to see though his nervousness to come to an accurate conclusion.

The pause, only punctuated by the grumbling weather outside, lasted a full minute before Pos stopped staring into his soul. He then leaned back onto the arm of the couch and kicked his legs back into Scripps’ lap.

“And you're certain you want to do this?” He asked, far too nonchalant for Scripps’ tastes, “‘ _Celibacy goes deeper than the flesh,’_ after all.”

“Better to get it over with, I suppose,” Scripps countered, “It's not like I ever intended for it to last forever.”

Posner looked at him thoughtfully, and then said, “You know you don't have to right? There's nothing wrong in waiting. You might even enjoy it more if you _do_ wait.”

“But how long would I wait for? Surely it can't last forever.” Outside the rain began to quiet and Scripps took the opportunity to recollect his frazzled ends. He began again, lower this time, “I know I began this whole mess, but I do believe it’s better to fix it now before all goes wrong. I want to get it over with.”

“‘Get it over with’? Scripps, you sound like you're going for an injection, not like you're about to get fucked.”

Scripps looked at Posner, actually looked him in the eyes, and spoke in a way that suggested the end of a conversation, “I’m going to get it over with. The celibacy was never a permanent thing. It’s always been more a matter of when than if.”

The silence after was extremely loud indeed. Scripps couldn't quite tell if he were threatening him. If he were he was sure doing a good job of it, but the way Scripps began to sink into the couch after he finished his statement made him think otherwise. _Of course,_ he thought to himself, _of course Scripps would go to any length to hide what he thinks are weaknesses._ Instead of saying anything he wanted to ( _Are you afraid of being who you are? Were you scared I was going to disapprove? What made you realise this now?),_ he began again, perhaps less determined to get the truth but his tone left no room for arguments, “And you want to do this?”

It sounded so simple coming from him now. While it was still a question he didn't want to hear, it wasn't as if he couldn't answer it. “Yeah,” he finally said, feeling lacklustre.

Pos considered this. It wasn't his place to pry, but it didn't seem to make sense, “Why have you only decided to do this now? You’re twenty-one, Scripps, it’s not like you're being held back.”

Scripps sighed. He took a moment to sit there; all energy having gone into what he thought would be his final statement.

“I was holding myself back.”

“Why?”

“Truth be told, it whittles down to me not being up for it until now.”

Pos got up then and returned to stand by the seat near the window. He pulled back the curtains slightly to assess the rain outside. Immediately the mood shifted, and Scripps put down the cup of now cold tea.

“I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you,” David then said, “And that I forced you into telling me. If I were in your shoes now I'd kick me out.”

He huffed a laugh and Pos tuned to look at him, a slight smile on his face. Scripps murmured, “It's okay. I was planning on telling you anyway.”

“Good,” Pos immediately replied, “I’d’ve hated to be the one that put you off fucking forever.”

“Dakin already tried, so I doubt you could do much better.”

In response, Posner only laughed.

//////

“I heard you're giving up the celibacy, “ Dakin said, peering over Scripps’ shoulder.

“You're never going to finish that essay if you keep distracting yourself, Stu.”

“The essay isn't as important as this new revelation you've been having,” he continued, “and not as important as me gaining all the information I can. Tell me, was it a woman you saw standing alone at a bar, or a gorgeous man with excellent forearms at church?”

“Why would I give up celibacy by looking at myself?”

“Har har, very funny,” he turned back to his essay, leaving Scripps to his own work, “I’m thinking that if you’re serious about getting fucked I know a few people that may be interested.”

“Dakin-”

“No, Scripps. Listen. There's a guy, a bit taller than you, shot brown hair, and if you're thinking that it sounds good it gets better-”

“Dakin, you are aware that I am not you, right? I'm not going to rush in, despite you insisting I do. There's nothing else to say.”

The groan from the floor behind him said all Scripps needed to hear, but it seemed Dakin didn't realise this and said it anyway, “you don't need to be me in order to get fucked, Scripps, and that means you should at least try.”

Scripps threw his pen onto the desk and spun his chair around to look at Dakin. He breathed in, calming himself, “I will try,” he said, hating how unassertive he sounded, “but you're not about to start me into action.”

“Why haven't you started then?”

“I wasn't interested before.”

“Bullshit. If you weren't interested then why would you be now?”

Scripps sputtered in disbelief, “Who says I can't change my mind?”

“I do,” Dakin, continued, “I say so. You don't change your mind about something like that. It’s like me deciding to give up fucking forever. It's not going to happen without some sort of cause.”

“And you're sure of this theory of yours?” Scripps asked.

Dakin huffed, leaning up on his elbows to get a better look at Scripps from where he was on the floor. Making eye contact, neither of them backed down; Unalterable Scripps, and Dakin defiant as ever. He opened his mouth again, “I’m so sure of it that I don't even think it can be called a theory any more, Scripps. You’ve proven in the past that you're up for it.”

“Like fuck I have! When?”

“That time in school, when I backed you up against the wall,” Dakin began, sitting up on the floor so that he wasn't draped across Scripps’ feet any longer, “you were blushing-”

“Because I was blushing doesn't mean I wanted to fuck you.”

“No, but I assume the way you wrote about it in that journal of yours did. ‘ _Oh Stuart! He backed me against the wall-’_ ” Dakin dodged a swipe and got to his feet to better avoid Scripps’ lunge, “ _‘-and I thought he was going to kiss me! If only he did!’_ ”

Scripps got up from the chair and Dakin took it as an opportunity to snatch the Journal from the desk. The following scuffle was inevitable; Scripps’ hands, one on the book and the other on Dakin’s shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him, were vice-like. But Dakin had the advantage of being both quicker and a dirty fighter, so with a quick jab to Scripps’ ribs he was free and running. Unfortunately for Dakin there wasn't much room to run in Scripps’ flat, but luckily for him he knew about the only room with a lock: the bathroom. So with a quick duck under the next grab, Dakin swivelled his way around the desk, through the gap between the couch and the armchair and into the bathroom.

“Dakin,” Scripps tried the door, “Dakin, you cock, I will not hesitate to break down this door.”

“ _‘Although I admit that the world wouldn't be the same without him, it doesn't stop the fact that Dakin isn't a good person’_ ,” He read, then stopped. Scripps went from one foot to the other, trying the door handle with increasing urgency. Dakin began again, this time with less of an exaggerated northern accent, “ _‘It concerns me how easily Dakin is able to worm his way into my thoughts. While he never does anything too provocative he is nonetheless there, and it always feels like a matter of time until the next strike on my sanity.’_ ” He then laughed, “Scrippsy, darling, you flatter me.”

“Open the door!”

Scripps heard the sound of Dakin flick through the book and he put his forehead to the wood.

“ _‘I've never noticed until now how much I've been missing out on with this whole lack of romance thing. Sometimes the idea of curling up with someone-’_ Where are you going, Scripps? We’re getting to the better parts now!” he cried, listening to Scripps stalk away from the door. Dakin began to speak louder, nearly yelling, “ _‘-curling up with someone is actually quite nice, though I'd never admit it to anyone unless they're being particularly persistent_.’”

A worrying stillness filled the flat when Dakin took a chance to listen, and from where he was on the floor, back pressed against the door, it quite possibly sounded like no one was in the flat at all. Other than himself, of course. Staining to listen, Dakin flipped through the journal again, staying as quiet as he could, wondering if perhaps this time he had gone too far.

He caught a page mid flip and turned it back to reveal the previous page, filled with the same chicken-scratch as all the others. The bad handwriting wasn't what caught his attention though, it was a single word he didn't think he'd heard or seen Scripps use before: ‘ _embarrassed.’_ He stopped himself from reading on for a moment, recalling as many memories as he could that used that word, yet none involving Scripps came to mind. Suddenly feeling guilty, Dakin closed the book but kept his finger on the page. It wasn't his right to read on.

Naturally Dakin ignored this and read on with renewed vigour.

“Scripps?” He called out after reading the next passage, but was met with complete silence. Somewhere in the flat the radiator kicked into life, and from where Dakin was it sounded suspiciously close. He moved to a crouch, his hand still pressed against the door like he was the only thing keeping it closed, and again listened for movement. Nothing. He stood, his legs straining to stop himself from getting up too quickly and making a noise. He pressed his ear to the door, the fat of his cheek against the gloss. Nothing. Not even after a full thirty seconds was there a sound. Standing fully now, Dakin put his hand on the latch. Hesitation made him stop and listen again, even though he wasn't quite sure what he was listening for.

Nothing.

Finally, after another whole minute behind the door, he pulled it back, the sound of it making him cringe. He gripped the handle and twisted it, swinging it open to reveal an empty living room. Standing in the doorway with such an acute anxiety flittering around his head, journal in hand and secrets on his mind, he couldn't help but feel a little daft.

After scanning the immediate area he took a step forward, a coy idea forming in his head.

“Scripps?” He said, much lower than before. He tucked the book under the lapel of his jacket and held his arm to it, hiding it. Finally he took a step out from the doorway.

An elbow came around his neck and pulled him back. With a twist and a gasp Dakin was pressed against Scripps. The book fell to the floor with a flutter, and forgoing the latch on Dakin’s neck Scripps went to snatch it back. But Dakin was quicker. He kicked it into the corner of the room. Sputtering with what Dakin could only assume was anger, Scripps began a desperate crawl to where the book landed, and once Dakin actually realised what Scripps was trying to do he too began to scramble.

Hitting the floor, Dakin gripped the book, “No,” he stated when Scripps jabbed at his ribs and reached over him for it.

Dakin curled up suddenly, pressing his back against Scripps’ stomach. When Scripps snatched it this time Dakin was ready and pulled his favourite evasive manoeuvre. He rolled both he and Scripps over so that he was facing the ceiling with Scripps underneath him. Dakin held the book high above the both and opened the page he’d bookmarked earlier. Scripps froze, but immediately began wiggling and swearing, his attempts at getting Dakin off of him even stronger than before.

Much to Scripps’ dismay, it seemed that Dakin was immune to any sort of attack when he read aloud the passage, “ _‘It appears as though I was not as immune to physical attraction as I thought. I actually feel somewhat embarrassed by this new revelation because all the other boys had it long ago, even including those I assumed would have it last, like Poser or Rudge,’” Dakin_ gasped when Scripps freed one of his arms to grab at the book, “‘ _unfortunately for me, it came at a particularly unfortunate time. During the middle of a lecture-’”_ Scripps forgot about the book and began to roll himself upwards in an attempt to dislodge Dakin, his arm finding its place around Dakin’s neck once again. Choking out a laugh, Dakin let the poor book flutter to the floor once again, now with far more dents than it had before.

Scripps ripped it from the floor and pushed the laughing demon off of his front. He slid it across the floor so that it was under the couch, too far to reach. Panting, Scripps lay on the floor and closed his eyes, waiting for the childish giggles to calm down. When they eventually did, Dakin, ever the unexpected, put his head on Scripps’ thigh and looked to the ceiling as well. Scripps shifted. He felt Dakin’s smile through the fabric of his trousers.

“Wow, Scrippsy,” he began, and Scripps wanted to sink into the floor he lay on. Dakin, like in most situations wherein his conversation partner wanted to die, continued without addressing it, “if you're that wild in bed you've got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Scripps sighed, longsuffering and loud in comparison to the quiet panting from before. Still not speaking quite the truth, he stated, “Dakin.”

The smile hadn't disappeared from his thigh. “Yes, Scrippsy?” he said, the sickening smugness still stuck to his voice.

“I fucking hate you sometimes.”

The chuckle Dakin then used suggested finality to Scripps, but of what he wasn't quite sure. He knew for a fact that he wasn't about to skip off down to the pub and offer someone a shag, and he hoped to God that Dakin knew that.

Dakin rolled onto his front, his forearms pressing against Scripps’ stomach and his hands underneath his chin. Daring to look up, Scripps could see the slight smile of his mouth and the mischievous, yet somehow serious, gleam to the eyes that watched him. A shift in mood occurred when Dakin began to speak, all childish actions and attitude gone since their scuffle. Scripps looked away, as if believing that not seeing him would make him go away.

“You see, Scripps,” Dakin began, a worrying seriousness breaching his voice, “Fucking is a lot like going into a cave. Now don't laugh, I’m not using that kind of metaphor,” Scripps stayed eerily silent, his eyes closed and body so still he could be mistaken for being asleep. Dakin continued, “Fucking is like going into a cave. If you keep looking back into the greenery of the outside world and keep saying to yourself, ‘ _it looks so much nicer out there,’_ you’re never going to go deeper into the cave. And you're never going to get to the good stuff. The gold. You’re in the shittiest part of the cave.”

“Oh, cheers,” Scripps muttered.

“No, listen. You're in the shittiest part of the cave, the part where you can see that there's something there, but you don't know what it is. You need to go a little deeper to have a good time.”

Dakin readjusted his position again, burying the side of his face into Scripps’ stomach. Sighing, Dakin gripped at the front of Scripps’ shirt, his fingers going underneath the buttons and knuckles pressing against his skin. Scripps continued with his act of dead-like stillness, not daring to move as Dakin acted as he always did - taking what he wanted with barely any room for arguments.

Time passed, as it does, but exactly how much Scripps couldn't be certain of. For once Dakin was as static as Scripps had always tried to be, but predictably he broke it as soon as the thought popped into his head. Scripps braced himself, his stomach seizing, but Dakin ignored him, “I can find someone, you know. Someone you might be interested in.”

Scripps hummed.

“No seriously,” he continued, “I'm not afraid to try and help you out, you know. I’ll ask around.”

“I don't know if I'm up for any old stranger, Dakin. I’d like it to be with someone I trust.”

“You need to do it sooner rather than later though Scripps, and I'll be damned if I let this opportunity slip past you.”

“I didn't realise it was your choice,” he replied coolly.

Dakin finally looked at him, “It honestly isn't. But that's not going to stop me from helping you along in any way I can. You wait, Scrippsy, with me by your side you could take on the world,” then he sat up, and Scripps copied the movement, “I’ll help you out. Don't you worry.”

“Who said I wanted you to?”

Adjusting his hair in the mirror beside Scripps front door, Dakin eventually turned to face him with a rather worrying look on his face. The smouldering grin (Scripps still struggled to think of something better to describe it as, even after years of being on the receiving end of it) spread across his face spelt nothing but trouble, and based on Stuart’s current affiliation with his sex life, Scripps could only hope it wasn't something life-ruiningly terrible. Dakin sauntered up to Scripps’ desk and (thankfully) snatched his own bag up from the floor, “I’ve got to make a move, Scrippsy. Places to be and what not.”

Scripps let his head smack back onto the floor as Dakin opened the door, letting his eyes close briefly before releasing the door hadn't actually shut. His eyes met Dakin’s, waiting for the other man to say something that Scripps knew he'd hate.

“You uh,” Dakin began but then stopped, seemingly reconsidering what he wanted to say. His eyes flicked down from Scripps’s face, and then back up. That devilish smirk returned, “good luck getting your precious journal back from under the couch,” Dakin raised his voice as Scripps started to swear, “and have fun thinking of our tussle when you’re dealing with _that_ ,” Dakin said, pointing... suspiciously low on Scripps’ body. Scripps pulled his leg up slightly, covering himself even if he didn't-

Oh.

_Oh fuck._

Dakin’s echoing laughter fell through the door as he closed it, leaving Scripps spiralling on the floor of his living room, haunted by the thoughts that Dakin could have gained or would share from their little grapple. In all the years of Scripps’ less than graceful repression he couldn't think of a bigger turnoff than Dakin boasting about plundering the innocent of their ‘value’, but it somehow felt even worse if Dakin were to refer to him in that way. He couldn't tell if he’d be mortified or not.

He hoped for all things holy in his life he would be, but based on his current reaction he couldn't give a definite answer. Letting his head fall back onto the floor Scripps made a noise, his eyes slipping shut while he listened to his rather fast heartbeat. His forearms stung from where he’d rubbed them into the carpet, and apparently focusing on that was enough to get him to calm down. Somehow, he still felt like a failure; only he wasn’t sure why.

//////

Unease settled into Scripps’ gut for days.

Dreams of shadowy figures, waiting for something, maybe even someone, watched him when his eyes are open. He’d taken to closing the curtains so they didn’t appear on the walls anymore, but even then they appeared in his sleep, waking him in the night to lead him into unknown places. Temptation, probably, but when he realised what he believed they wanted he wasn't filled with the same bitter determination as he once was, only an endless tiredness that came out from his bones and shook through the rest of his being. Perhaps it was a test, but set by whom he didn't quite know.

Seeing someone about it at this stage felt superfluous and, if he were being quite honest to himself, a bit pathetic. The insatiable Scripps didn't _talk_ to people about his problems, he brooded on them for as long as he could bare, and based on previous evidence, that could be quite a long time.

Still, something inside of him felt skewed, his body shifting into an unfamiliar shape in ways he couldn't see.

‘ _I am not what I am,’_ comes to mind one night, but Iago was hardly going through a sexual crisis. It still felt rather familiar; Scripps had hid his true self from those he'd trusted for years now, and to him this more recent discovery was like ripping off a mask.

A few days passed.

Lying awake at night Scripps came to a decision that he'd previously pushed away, one that directly went against his nature, and quite honestly scared him a little.

He had made his decision.

The shadows receded, slinking back under the wardrobe and the chest-of-drawers, their eyes never leaving his until they eventually disappeared. Scripps stared into the space where they once were, thinking again on his options. Ultimately there was little else to think on, and he flipped over to return to his uneasy sleep.

//////

_I knew as soon as I had made this deal with God that everyone who found out about it was expecting me to fail. My parents, my friends and even my fellow churchgoers. And truth be told I didn't have a lot of faith in myself either - more than once between my fifteenth birthday and now I’ve woken up in a stuffy hot sweat in the middle of the night, or sometimes mid morning, sheets tangled and head foggy._

_It’s so, so appealing to show them all that they were wrong; to show them all that I’m capable of saving myself from the demons and vices. But it was such a steep mountain to climb, such a rocky path with struggles unforeseen and unforgiving. And for what? Nothing was on the path of this mountain trail but challenges and inviting roads back down to the bottom._

_‘I don’t think believe in God anymore, and truth be told I never had. God should get real, we don't owe him anything.’ - as once mentioned to Dakin._

_And this final test fills me with an ever-growing tiredness and frustration, deep set into my body like a scar._

_The worst part was when I realised that there was nothing at the top of the mountain. No scenic view, no bench to sit a while, no plants or snow or clouds. A mist of regret and disappointment._

_The spanner Dakin has thrown into the works didn't help either, because what little reward was at the top immediately became even more untouchable. Women were no longer in the picture. It feels like one final test could send me off kilter forever._

On the final day of September a surprisingly warm morning set its heat into the old stone of Oxford, warming the old buildings and casting lines across the sheets on Scripps’ bed. Though outside the streets were calm, and inside was of a similar volume, a faint but unmistakable sound of harsh breathing came from under the duvet. It shifted, a bare leg poking out into the sun before it disappeared again. The blanket moved again, the beds contents rolling over in late morning sleep. A grunt, followed by another movement, and then a slight rut into the mattress.

A tuft of hair appeared on the pillow as the blanket was pulled down, and Scripps’ unmistakable face came with it. Part of his chest was exposed to the light, red and flushed with his tussling. Then he went still, a single eye peeling open to stare at the far wall, glaring. It slipped shut again when his body curled in on itself, a long and tired groan echoing from his throat, filled with the feeling of this happening before.

He lay there. He listened to the cars begin to start up under his window and he listened to the pigeons wake and coo. Deathly still, Scripps buried himself deeper into the warm confines of his bed, willing the entire thing swallow him whole, or at least swallow him back into the sweet abyss of sleep. But alas Scripps remained awake, a blush going from his cheeks to his neck and down over his chest, and down further under where the sheet covered him.

He lurched, gripping the towel off the back of the door immediately and wrapping it around his waist, bashful in the warm glow of the morning. Feet slapping on the hardwood floor, he plodded over to the en-suite, head still spinning and confused. He fumbled with the door handle and when it finally opened he slid inside, one of his freckled shoulders rubbing against the doorway. He dropped the towel onto the floor automatically and turned to the shower, still working in the haze of sleep as he turned the shower on as cold as it would go before pulling the curtain to. The added noise made him open l his eyes a little more and he looked at himself in the small mirror above the sink, examining the grey area under his eyes and the red painted over half his face and neck.

The shower taunted him. Icy cold and persistent. He knew he wasn't going to be celibate forever. Was it worth keeping it now? Was it worth another day of grinding teeth and listening to Dakin boast about his latest fuck? Was it worth repressing thoughts he didn't want to have only because they ruined his appearance?

Was it worth having the last laugh when no one would see him have it?

The short, simple answer that arose shook him. Was he actually about to throw nine years of hard work literally down the drain? Was it worth grinning and baring the prods and pokes and laughs just to see what it was like?

The shower roared behind him, and tearing himself away from the mirror he faced it. With a shaky hand he reached around the cold spray to adjust the taps.

Stomach twirling within him he adjusted the water temperature to be higher.

He stepped inside and pulled the curtain closed.


	2. Chapter 2

“So what you're saying is, _”_ Scripps listened Posner chewing his gum as he walked beside him, “Dakin has taken it upon himself to sort out your sex life. _”_

Scripps cringed at the phrasing but felt himself nodding, “Essentially, yes.”

Pos sighed, seemingly out of frustration, but Scripps couldn't help but feel it was aimed towards him, “And what exactly do you want me to do, Scrippsy? He doesn't listen to me as is, let alone when I'm not talking about him.”

“It's just-” he sighed, slumping, “It's that I've told him to knock it off with trying to get me to sleep with someone and he hadn't listened-”

“Have you forced him to listen?” There was a pause as they walked, and Scripps’ head spiralled around the idea of it being that simple. Pos took this as an answer, “ you need to get him to listen to you. Make sure he's not going to run off and tell him. I don't know what else to say to you Scripps.”

The crunching of the autumnal leaves beneath them filled in the lapse in their conversation, but it appeared that this wasn't the end of it. Scripps looked up in the direction that they were going, “I tried to tell him but I don't think he fully registered what I was trying to say,” he began, “I think he's trying to find a worthy candidate to take my virginity.”

“Surely you'd rather it be with someone you know and trust?”

“ _That's what I said.”_

Posner’s lip curled slightly, “Oh dear. This is a fine mess he's dragged you through,” they turned off the avenue and went on to the high street, the sound of the leaves being replaced with the motor of cars and the clicking of Posner’s fancy new shoes on the pavement.

Scripps opened his mouth to ask about them, but another voice came from his throat, “There you are! Exactly the bloke I wanted to see!” An arm looped around his shoulders, pulling him into a one armed embrace, “Scripps, have I got the man for you! I mentioned him once at the pub, the cricket captain, Michael, I told him about you the other day and I think he may well be interested in helping you out with your little ‘problem’. He's even taller than I am, so if you're into that you're going to have a whale of a time-”

“Dakin,”

The monotone flatness of Scripps voice must have given away his excitement, as Dakin cut himself off mid spiel. Scripps could see Posner looking at them from the side of the pavement, and apparently that was enough to snap Scripps out of his previously unassertive phase of mind, and with this newfound bravery he took Dakin's arm from his shoulders and turned to face him, “Dakin, could you knock it off for a bit? I'm only barely getting to grips with the fact I'm up for it,” he said, a strange calm surprising even Scripps.

Posner gave a brief thumbs up.

“And besides,” he stated, “I'm not gay,” but somehow it felt weakened in comparison to his previous argument.

Dakin scoffed, and immediately Scripps felt even weaker, “Right,” he stated, “and I've got blue hair. Everyone's a little bit gay, Scripps; it's a fact of nature. You're not immune to it because you've got a direct phone line to God.”

“I don't know who's argument is weaker, yours or Scripps’,” a quiet voice spoke up, “it's not as if he's ever spoken in confession about his raging homosexuality and affiliation with things men do.”

Glaring at Posner, Dakin spoke up again, forcing Scripps’ hands to leave his shoulders, “And how would you know what he confesses to?”

A little smirk flashed across Posner’s face; similarly, a flash of fear spiked Scripps in his stomach. Dakin caught the look too, a brief expression of confusion, then realisation, flickered across his face, then being replaced with a smug smile far too close to Posner's own for Scripps’ liking. Dakin wandered over to Posner, and while he took care to avoid other people on the street, his eyes never left Pos’ face.

Scripps felt compelled to follow them into this little circle by the side of the road they'd created, but once he entered the overwhelming feeling of the claustrophobic space overshadowed what benefits may have come with hearing their conversation. Nevertheless, Scripps persisted, determined to argue his points and make sure Posner didn't throw him under the bus. Scripps knew Pos wasn't the type to unearth secrets without reason, but the idea of him doing it while Scripps was _right there_ but not included in the conversation felt wrong. He knew for a fact that Pos weren’t cruel at heart, but that didn't stop him from worrying about him spilling their little four-in-the-morning secrets.

Approaching them he could hear Posner’s quiet voice muttering something, and while Scripps expected Dakin to be interrogating him, Posner seemed perfectly happy to share. Scripps could only assume it was because Posner was finally getting some kind of attention from Dakin, and not because he was enjoying sharing some of Scripps’ most repressed memories and fantasies.

He drew close enough to hear them, “...He’s never said he _wouldn’t,_ Dakin. I don't have anything else to say. I can only assume he's never tried, but not wholly uninterested.”

Dakin’s eyes flickered to Scripps, and he felt himself stop. His eyes lingered, predatory and heart stopping. Although Scripps knew this conversation was about him, he couldn't help but feel intrusive, yet Dakin ruined the feeling with the slow smile that went across his face. When Pos looked at him too the phrase ‘between a rock and a hard place’ came to mind as the worryingly similar features they shared earlier were returning.

Dakin sauntered towards Scripps, who struggled to hold himself still under their prying gaze. An innocent hand went on his shoulder, causing Scripps to freeze. Offhandedly, Dakin changed the mood; “I haven't seen you and Posner in such a while, Scrippsy. Why don't we get coffee?”

“Coffee?” He struggled.

Dakin's eyes narrowed, and Scripps swore his pupils expanded, “Yes,” he said with little room for argument, “Coffee.”

////

“Look alright,” Dakin said as he sat down, “I'm sorry I got the wrong impression. I thought I'd try to help you get over it,” Scripps said nothing as he stirred his coffee. Posner took a long sip of his tea. Dakin took this as an invitation to continue, “I am, however, _not_ sorry for telling some of the other lads.”

Posner put down his cup and slung his leg out from under the table in a vague attempt to kick Dakin, missing by a mile and kicking the table instead. The saucer under Dakin's cup shifted, but Dakin continued anyway, “I am also not sorry for assuming you wanted to get this ‘losing my virginity’ thing over with. I should have known that like with all things, Donald, you take your fucking time.”

“Furthermore,” he continued, talking over Posner's attempts at defending Scripps, “you must realise that taking your time isn't fucking working. When I talk about fucking Sharon-”

“I thought it was Jody?”

“Jody was last week,” he began anew, “When I talk about fucking Sharon you're fine. You're getting worse at holding your ground against me, because both you and I know you had the worst reactions to me mentioning taking Irwin against the floor.”

“ _Dakin,”_ Posner hissed as the waitress walked past. Scripps sunk further into the leather of the couch while Dakin looked between them, an unimpressed but somehow still amused look twinkling in his eye. Scripps watched as Dakin raised one of his sculpted eyebrows (and Scripps _knew_ they were sculpted because he watched Dakin having them threaded, and because Scripps had to hold Dakin's hand to keep him calm enough for the beautician to finish). Pos let go of his vice grip on the tea cup’s handle which made Dakin's attention snap away, letting Scripps fall back into his closed state of mind like a cat toy back to the floor after a particularly rough play session.

Scripps chose this icy-thin moment to make his case, “I'm not repressed, and I just wasn't up for it until now. Is that so hard to understand?”

“What's hard to understand is why you don't care if I talk about girls and having sex with them, but as soon as I mention men you're a hot mess? And you only insist you're not gay when I mention someone that is!”

“I do not!”

“Lower your voice, Scripps,” Posner reminded him.

Scripps briefly glared at Posner, but Dakin caught his attention again with the awful lure of his eyes. There was a pause where they only looked at one another, and Scripps could see Posner looking between them, his face looking caught between excitement and concern. Settling his heart, Scripps wished he could just write it down, but instead he faced the music, “Dakin, I'm not gay. And none of your insisting that I am won't change that fact.”

“Would it change your mind if I was up for helping you lose it?”

His brain short-circuited, “I- Dakin, you-”

“What?” Dakin leant forward over the table, nearly putting the front of his shirt into his drink, “you said you wanted your first time to be with someone you trusted. Do I not fit the bill? You also said that you weren't gay, but I bet with a little patience and a little lube-”

Posner put his cup down, “Drink up. We’re leaving,” he said with no room for arguments. He got a handful of Scripps’ shirt and pulled him up to his feet, then dragged him off to the front of the café, leaving Dakin to desperately down the rest of his drink.

“Pos-” he said as they returned to the street, but Posner was too preoccupied with dragging Scripps around the edge of the cafe and into a side street.

When Posner was satisfied with the location (or more likely, the lack of Dakin at the location) he turned around to face Scripps. He spoke before Scripps could, “I'm not going to let him force you into having sex with him.”

“He wasn't forcing me-”

Posner grabbed his shoulders, “ _Scripps,”_ he hissed, eyes widening, “did you not see how he looked at you? Did you not hear what he said? I get that you're an idiot sometimes but _come on._ The last time I saw him talk like that was through the door at Cluter’s, and we both know how that turned out.”

Dakin chose that moment to slink around the corner and Posner glared at him. Scripps turned to look, bracing for the worse, though what ‘the worse’ was he wasn't quite sure. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket he slowed to re join their conversation, “I thought this was Scripps’ virginity, Pos, not yours. I thought it was his choice.”

He bristled, “It is! But you're taking advantage! You can't waltz up to someone in the middle of a sexual crisis and ask them if they want to fuck, because usually it'll end up badly.”

“I'm not in a sexual crisis!” They snapped to look at him, but determined to hold his ground Scripps carried on, “I’m picky. I don't want to fuck up and have a bad time. And I'm not gay, for fucks sake.”

Face turning sour, Dakin spoke up, “Scripps! You've never even looked at a woman before, never felt the curves and softness. You _have_ looked at men, you've seen their ridges and harder lines-”

“I have not!”

Dakin took a step forward, “Then why did you refuse to look at me in the changing rooms? Why do you never sour when my magazines fall on the floor, but do when Lockwood watches wrestling and someone's in spandex? Why did you not care when you saw Rudge’s girlfriend walk around his flat naked, but did when you saw him? Why have you been able to help my sister find something that suited her without blushing and stuttering but not me? Scrippsy, you're not subtle.”

A silence. The world was ending around Scripps and he had no idea what he could do about it. His walls crumbled, his ceiling caved, his floors cracked, and Pos were watching. Watching all of it as Dakin rocked back on his heels and waited.

“You're gay?” Posner croaked.

His eyes swept downwards, looking for something to say, but he was met with grey concrete. Struggling to say anything he slumped back on the wall, feeling the chill of it through the back of his jumper. It felt like his guts were spread over the very floor he was looking at and the others were prodding at it with a fork.

“Is this your sexual awakening? The moment most had eight or so years ago? I never realised you were such a late bloomer.”

The yelp that followed Dakin's remark must have meant Posner had hit him, and Scripps wished he could defend himself in such a time but with the way his head was spinning it may have been for the best that he couldn't. Scripps watched a pair of shoes stumble past and Dakin let out another noise as Pos got close enough to smack at him.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice sounding harsh to his own ears, and Pos reappeared in his field of view. Dakin settled a few feet away.

Posner hovered around him but when Scripps searched his brain for something- some word to assure Pos he was okay, some quote that made it appear he was fine with this new development- but he came up empty. Upon receiving no words of assurance Pos went from foot to foot, his hands clawing at his own arms.

“Scripps, mate, I know this is your new gay awakening and all that, but I want to say-” he grabbed Posner's arm before his hand could collide with his arm again, “-You haven't left it too late.”

Both Scripps and Pos’ attention snapped to Dakin then, like hearing such comforting words coming from the mouth of a raging arsehole was something they’d never experienced before. And truth be told, as the raging arsehole was infact Dakin there was a fair chance they had not.

“You haven't left it too late and it's understandable for you to be anxious. But you shouldn't let your own fear hold you back. You probably will, not going to lie when I say I have no faith in you getting it over with sooner rather than later, but you still shouldn't.”

Apparently Posner wasn't expecting that, apparently as much as Scripps wasn’t, because Dakin was left to stand there for a minute before either of them actually registered exactly what Dakin had said, and even when they had they stayed in silence. Finally Posner spoke up, “Comforting words? From Dakin? Has the world gone mad? Has hell frozen over? Am I running a fever? Having a temperature?”

“We get it Posner. You think lowly of me.”

“Scrippsy, sweetheart, put your hand to my forehead. Am I ill? Do I look flush? Sunken? Blue?” Scripps looked between them, lingering on Dakin before forcing himself away.

“Oh and Scripps,” Dakin called, interrupting Posner's dramatic monologue, “Do be a dear and consider my offer. I'm still willing to help you out if you ask.”

And then began to walk away, disappearing around the corner, as suddenly as he had appeared.

Pos spoke up, “I was honestly expecting him to disappear in a cloud of smoke for a moment there. That exit was far less extravagant than I was hoping.” Scripps said nothing and Posner turned to him, “You shouldn't take him up on his offer. I know someone he's… deflowered in the past and she hated it. Said he was distant and heartless. I don't think you deserve that.”

Scripps was too busy juggling his new revelation to reply, keeping his gaze locked to his shoes and his mind locked to Dakin's smile before he went around the corner.

//////

October second was a dreary and miserable day for all those caught in its grasp. The wind ripped the leaves from the horse chestnuts and the oaks, scattering them over the cobblestones on the road up to the pub. Under the heavy footfall of everyone walking the leaves turned to a wet and slippery sludge that coated the shoes of those brave enough to come outside in such an autumnal storm.

And apparently the Cluter’s boys were brave enough.

When the clocks approached midnight and the street lamps shone to the best extent that they could in such harsh weather, the front door to _The Duke of Cambridge_ swung back to let out the stumbling bunch, laughter rolling upwards into the night. Ahead of the group Dakin was talking about something with Lockwood and Timms hanging off his shoulder. In the middle was Crowther, talking with Akthar and Posner, and finally at the back were Scripps and Rudge.

While the wind was still sharp as a knife, Rudge’s face showed nothing but peace as he walked. Scripps, on the other hand, slouched, his body curling in and face hidden by the shadows. Akthar peeled off from their group, the others all wishing him well when he waved back at them. ‘The Others’ apparently didn't include Scripps, as he remained deathly silent and continued walking without so much of a glance upward.

“Are you alright there, mate?” A quiet voice spoke up, rough with alcohol and the late-night grime. Scripps snapped up to look at Rudge who walked over the cobblestones without missing a step. It was sort of like dancing, because Scripps knew for a fact that Posner was terrible at dancing and also was terrible at walking on cobblestones, and the correlation felt accurate. Cobblestones wouldn't make the best dancing floor anyway, and while Scripps had no intentions in breaking out into a foxtrot it was worth knowing.

“Scripps?”

Ah, right, Rudge. Scripps forced himself to look back at the floor, “Yeah, I'm alright.”

The answer didn't seem to satisfy him, “Are you sure?”

“Look mate, just-” Scripps cut himself off before he could snap at Rudge. He knew he had good intentions but sometimes it was so hard to explain things, “I'm alright. Don't worry about it.”

A quiet moment passed and they reached another crossroad, and under the streetlamps Dakin bid farewell to his entourage and turned left, Posner wished goodbye to the rest and disappeared without hearing a goodbye, and Scripps skunk quietly into the night after Pos.

“Isn't he a bit of a well dressed mess these days?” Lockwood said after they walked on for a bit, “Maybe he's getting sad. I heard he was thinking about giving up on the no-fucking business. Truly a shame, I’d like to have seen him bumble about a little longer.”

“Scripps is giving up on his vow? Who'd’ve thought?” Crowther crowed, “What broke him out of it? Rudge walking around naked-”

“Probably.”

“Shut up Rudge. Or a bump to the back of the head?”

Timms spoke up, “Perhaps he looked in the mirror and felt a narcissism only experienced by Dakin before. Self-sexual, if you will.”

“Scrip-sexual.”

“He's _Scrip_ ped the _Scrip-_ uality and moved on to being _Scrip_ -sexual,” Timms joked.

“Okay that's enough. No more jokes because I think I have a theory,” Crowther schemed.

“You? Thinking? Has the world gone mad?”

“Fuck _off_ , Lockwood.”

“No. I want to hear this theory of yours.”

Crowther suddenly stopped, causing his followers to stumble and nearly fall on him. He pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket and handed the packet to Lockwood, who took one and handed it to Rudge, who took one and handed it to Timms, who took one and handed it back to Crowther, who took the whole thing and put it back into his coat. A lighter appeared in his hand, coloured a pale pink and covered in black permanent marker. He flicked on the lighter and lit his cigarette before handing it to Lockwood, who lit his cigarette before handing it to Rudge, who lit his cigarette before handing it to Timms, who lit his cigarette before handing it back to Crowther. He pocketed the lighter in the other side of his coat.

After taking the first drag of his cigarette Crowther began to walk and talk, “Dakin has rung many-a-time to ask Lockwood and I for advice about someone he knows. He claims he knows a ‘girl’.”

“Not unusual, Crowther. This argument is weak.”

“And what's this got to do with Scripps?” Rudge asked. Lockwood gestured for them to quiet down as he sucked on his cigarette,

“Maybe you should let me finish? That's what I thought. Dakin claims he knows a ‘girl’ that wants to hand over her virginity, but is being all shy and coy about it. He basically wants to fuck her and she isn't giving him a no or a yes answer.”

“What's your point, Crowther?”

“All I'm saying,” Lockwood sneezed and Crowther brushed the smoke away from himself, “ all I'm saying is that maybe this ‘girl’ isn't a ‘girl’ at all. Maybe it's Scripps.”

“On a scale of one to ten how sure are you on this theory?” Rudge asked.

“One to ten? A percentage scale would be better. More accurate, you see.”

Crowther turned to face them, flicking ash to the ground, “on a one to ten scale I'm at least an eight. On a percentage scale I'm around eighty four.”

“You two live together, right? I know you don't, Timms,” Rudge asked, and all three of them nodded, “So you both have to believe this right? That Dakin wants to shag Scripps?”

Lockwood nodded and took the lead of their plod back to Rudge's flat, but kept the conversation running, “I can see it. He hasn’t mentioned this girl’s name, even though he knows we won't try to fuck her. And Dakin’s got a bit of virginity kink, after all.”

“‘ _Virginity kink_ ’,” Rudge scoffed, “if he had a virginity kink he’d’ve fucked Posner.”

Crowther burst out laughing, Lockwood kept his head down and Timms flicked the butt of his cigarette down the drain he almost tripped over. Crowther reeled back like he'd been punched and grasped onto the closest still object to stop him from falling over. His cigarette fell to the floor.

“ ‘M crying,” he whined, “I'm actually crying. Rudge. Mate. I love you but you're so fucking dense sometimes.”

Rudge bristled, “What have I said? What did I do?”

Timms spoke up, grinning around his words, “Lockwood fucked Posner on his sixteenth.”

Immediately Rudge responded, “Posner's sixteenth or Lockwood’s?”

Crowther wiped his eyes and slung his arm around Lockwood’s shoulders, “why doesn't the _inside man_ give you the details?”

“Fuck off, Crowther!” He yelped, body going rigid at Crowther’s cackle of a reply.

Rudge snubbed his light out on a bin and threw it in, watching as Crowther antagonised Lockwood. Interrupting, he asked Lockwood again, “Isn't gay sex illegal unless you're twenty-one?”

“That’s rubbish and you know it Rudge,” Lockwood’s strained a reply, gripping at Crowther’s hair in an attempt to get back at him, “Why should I need to wait until I'm twenty-one until I have sex with a bloke but I can fuck a girl at sixteen? It's rubbish.”

Timms nodded, “Yeah. That seems fucked.”

“Never thought of it like that, but we're getting off topic with this little turn of events,” Rudge said, taking a sharp turn and leaving the rest of them to stumble to keep him in sight.

“Dakin is adamant that Scripps want to sleep with him- oh sorry, I meant this ‘girl’ he was talking about. He thinks that because he's known her a long time and she hasn't given him a definite no she's still up for it,” Crowther jogged slightly to catch up with Rudge and explain his theory more, “we all know from sixth form that Dakin isn't wholly into girls.”

“Right.”

“True,” Timms tittered.

“What if Dakin wants to fuck Scripps for more than one reason?” Lockwood piped up, “He's an attractive bloke. And have you ever seen the way Dakin leers at him sometimes, even before Scripps’ sexual discovery?”

“‘Discovery’,” Timms mimicked, “Scripps isn't gay.”

“Scripps is ambitious at best,” Crowther said, bringing their drunken stumble to a halt, “He ogles us sometimes, too. Apart from maybe you, Anthony. You're Straight.”

Timms sputtered, “And you're not?”

“Kind of. Not a word for it, at the moment.”

Leaning against a lamppost, Timms sighed as he looked between them all, “Am I and Rudge the only woman lovers among us?”

“I'm up for women as well,” Crowther clarified.

“Let me reiterate; am I and Rudge the only ‘women only’ lovers among us?”

“No,” Lockwood piped up.

“No?” He waved his hands about, “No? No? Where's your argument?”

“I'm in the same boat as Crowther here, Timms,” Rudge admitted.

That appeared to be the final blow and Timms drew away from their group to rest a hand against a wall. After supporting himself he cried, “I'm the only woman lover! The only one that can let the Cluter's Legacy live on!”

“What legacy? The legacy of seven not completely heterosexual men? I'm sure there's been others.”

“And who knows, Timms, maybe you're up for it but just haven't tried,” Lockwood suggested, coyly.

Timms took three steps back, “Thanks but no thanks. No willies will be entering this hot piece of arse, thanks.”

Crowther barked out a laugh and kept walking down the road, and unspoken instruction for them to follow. After a solid minute of bumbling back to Rudge's place he spoke up again, “Is it actually any of our business whether or not Scripps is gay or if Dakin wants to fuck him?”

Lockwood let out a breath of air, watching the way it steamed in the cold. He took a moment before answering, “No. Probably not, but that's not to say I'm not up for helping Scripps out either. Have you seen his legs?”

“Nah mate. Arms. All I have to say.”

“All of him is pretty good, to be fair.”

Timms sighed, “I thought I was going to be able to tease you all about this but now I see my error.”

“The only error you've made is not looking at Scripps’ arse, because let me tell you Timms you're missing out.”

“Jimmy, I don't want to _know.”_

_/////_

Scripps had expected his world to crumble after his exploration in the shower, but similarly to what he had done that morning, he gripped to his religion with both hands. Possibly even harder than before. Maybe that little round of practice was all he had needed to stop him from jumping into the sexual exploration thing headfirst.

The key word was maybe, because after six days Dakin's little curve ball called an offer it was getting harder and harder to ignore. The feeling that had plagued him - the twisting and knotting of the snake in his stomach - had worryingly dropped dead. He was still nervous, the broken mug that morning had proved it, but it was a far more eerie and unpredictable nervousness that shook his hands and himself to the core.

Which, coincidentally, is what lead him to the empty church in the first place. Though his knees ached and his body shivered his mind was as clear as it could have been in time like that; freed from the two In the morning shadows and three in the afternoon fuzziness. He still felt like someone or something was watching him, anticipating the cracks and watching as smaller pieces of him fell apart.

He turned his head to the side slightly from where he was in the pews. He knew for a fact that he was alone on this level of the building, and that no one had come through the front door because he hadn't heard them creak. But the uneasiness still lingered like the humidity after a storm, following him as he finally opened his eyes.

“Do you get on your knees often? For praying or otherwise.”

Scripps felt like he let all the air from his body out in shock, nearly falling from his perch and onto his arse. Scripps whirled around to face the voice and was greeted with the most complacent looking face any human could have mustered. In fact, Scripps could describe it as inhumanly complacent, but the fact that it was attached to one Stuart Dakin meant it had to belong of-this-earth. Scripps didn't dare to move, his body rigid and his eyes totally focused on Dakin, who looked like a leopard about to pounce.

Dakin made the first move, “No hello? I assumed you were better raised than this.”

“I was,” he replied immediately, but his answer fell short, feeling dead in the water. Dakin took a deliberate step toward him, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he meticulously maintained his image, even though no one else was there to see or care.

Scripps saw and tried not to care.

Dakin thankfully stopped at the end of the pew, watching Scripps watch him. His attention flickered briefly away and back again, and Scripps could only be left to wonder what drew his gaze. Dakin opened his mouth to speak, and Scripps braced for whatever would come out.

“I don't understand you sometimes, Scripps, you're suddenly up for having sex, and you're suddenly up for having gay sex, and you still go to church,” Dakin paused, but form experience Scripps knew he wasn't done with his little spiel. They waited, and Dakin broke the quiet again, “Have you at least considered my offer?”

“It's not usually something one should think about in holy places.”

“Has it stopped you before?”

“No,” he immediately replied, “It's impossible not to with you in my life.”

Dakin looked to the roof of the church, or at the stained glass windows (or maybe he didn't even look at all, too lost in thought). Chuckling, Dakin spoke up again, “At least stand up when you talk to me, Scripps, it feels like you're waiting for something I won't give you. Not here at least.” 

Selectively choosing not to think about Dakin's last sentence, he stood to his full height, which, surprisingly to him, was not as tall as he was hoping. Nevertheless he waited in anticipation, though exactly what for he wasn't quite sure. Dakin knew, but of course Dakin knew.

“So what's the verdict? Do I need to leave you to brew for longer,” he asked, drawing closer, “Not as if I haven't given you enough time. Have you at least written it down?” Dakin was close enough to touch, “I did tell you to, but whether or not you obeyed me is yet to be seen.”

“Don't read my journal,” Scripps said, closing in on himself.

“It's a bit late to be calling it a journal, Scripps. Based on its content it's more like a diary,” Dakin drew impossibly closer, and Scripps felt his back hit the chill of the wall. Then Dakin stopped, watching Scripps with intensity akin to nothing he'd ever seen before.

Quietly, Dakin spoke in an unusually serious tone, “Do you actually want me to do this, Scripps? I'm only up for this if you are.”

Scripps actually looked at Dakin now, meeting his eyes for the first time since the conversation began and he saw… a terrifying openness he'd never experienced from Dakin before; in all the years of knowing him, never had he been quite so honest with both his actions and his words. And truth be told, it scared him.

Before he could stop himself he began to speak, “I want to, I just-” and he cut himself off. Wearily, Dakin kept to the same distance he was at before, still as a statue, and focusing entirely on Scripps who was still backed against the wall. Scripps made vague attempts at slowing his breathing with no real success, his heart still beating far faster than he would have liked. He attempted to begin again, “I want to,” Dakin raised an eyebrow, “ Believe me, I do. But I haven't done this before a- and I need you to understand that. I also want you to understand that I'm- well, I'm not Irwin-”

“I know, that Scrippsy,” he purred, “you don't need to be him in order for me to want you.”

“You want me?”

Dakin waited a tense moment. Then, speaking slowly with the most minute lip movements, he drew impossibly closer, “Scrippsy…” he whispered, “I want you. And answer me honestly here, do you want me to fuck you?” Scripps drew his final breath before Dakin was finally close enough for their chests to touch. He could feel a warm hand slide onto his hip, and another came to rest on his bared forearms, where his rolled-up sleeves met skin. Scripps struggled not to move. He kept his eyes shut.

Weakly, he murmured, “Yeah.”

He could feel Dakin’s thighs touching his, “You do? Oh, Scrippsy. You’ve made my day by saying that,” Dakin leaned in to let his lips brush Scripps’ neck and he could feel the moisture prickle the hairs on the back of it. Scripps’ eyes unwillingly opened, but he looked to the high ceilings of the church instead of at the demon licking his neck, looking for a pulse. Dakin spoke as his hand went under his jumper; “You look so beautiful when you blush. All down your neck too. Does it go further down?” Scripps’ eyes fogged and he blinked, mind swimming as he felt Dakin wetly latch onto his collarbone.

“Will you say what you want? Only for me?”

Scripps huffed, “What?”

“Tell me you want me. Tell me what you want me to do to you. Do you want me to touch you?” Dakin bit under his chin, “Do you want me to suck you off? Or pick you to pieces? I want to. Believe me; I want to with all my heart of hearts.”

Against his will his hips bucked upwards, his crotch coming into contact with Dakin's thigh. His head smacked back on the wall, the impact making his eyes blur, and Dakin swam in and out of his head like a fish in a river; twisting and curving his body around the bends. Scripps opened his mouth, trying to gather his thoughts enough to reply, but as he recognised the beginning of a sentence Dakin swam into view, eyes terrifyingly dark and hair still immaculate, like he was made for tearing people apart with his teeth and then putting them back together with everything he had. Maybe he was. Maybe that’s why Scripps was shivering so much, or why his skin stuck to the soft insides of his jumper. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his back, the heat of his body getting trapped against the stone behind him.

Every breath felt wet, the air sticking to his windpipe and making his chest feel tight. After a final stinging mark was left dangerously close to his sternum he found his voice, “I want- oh. I want you.”

“You want me?”

“I want you.”

“To do what?” Dakin’s leg went higher, and so did Scripps’ voice, “Be more specific.”

“To… to f- _uck,_ me,” Scripps clawed at the back of Dakin’s jacket, the leather sliding away underneath his sweaty hands. Scripps never cursed having short nails before now. But as he desperately clawed at Dakin to gain purchase and stop himself falling down the wall, Dakin slipped from his grasp.

Dakin took two steps back, leaving Scripps slumped against the wall and panting. That smile was back, now framed by spit-slicked, puffy red lips. Scripps pulled the hem of his jumper back down from where it had ridden up in a sort of defensive motion, but seeing as Dakin had already ravaged him like one of his many previous sexual partners it was a bit late for it.

“I didn't even kiss you,” he murmured and tilted his head to the side, “I didn't even kiss you, Scrippsy, and look at you,” he gestured, apparently including Scripps in it, “You must want me?”

Scripps found his voice, “Dakin,” but couldn't find a sentence to continue with and sunk further down the wall instead, hoping that raising knees would hide his shame. The church felt incredibly constricting, empty and holy, completely encompassing him with the weighty knowledge of what he’d done.

For some reason the voice in his head didn't sound like himself, or God, or even Dakin, but Posner’s quiet and somewhat nasally voice rung like a bell, ‘ _did you do that?’_ and Scripps finally landed on the floor, Dakin still lording over him.

Dakin sighed, eyes still half lidded and focused on Scripps like a hawk. Breathily, he said, “God, Scrippsy,” Scripps found the confidence to glare, but that would never stop Dakin, “I didn't take you as one that wanted to fuck in public, let alone in a church,” He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve and looked toward the altar.

Scripps lowered his gaze to the ground.

“How does Thursday sound?

Dakin was looking at him, the coloured light from the stained glass windows staining his face with unnatural hues. But Scripps wasn't focusing on how Dakin was so aloof when asking, or how he looked, or even the offer that was given. He was instead focusing on the grooves in the floor, but somehow his body still managed to act against his will, nodding his head and making his mouth form words.

Dakin swooped down at the waist to look Scripps in the eyes, the same distant smile gracing his features. Scripps met his gaze head on. He could feel his heart in his throat, squirming and slithering around, trying to make its home there. But Dakin grabbed his attention from it with a delicate hand under his chin, lifting it slightly so that Dakin could get a better look at… whatever it was he was looking at. Dakin then met his eyes and said, playfully, “You may want to wear a shirt with a higher collar for the next few days. I left a bit of a mark.”

Then, in a moment of unexpected tenderness, Dakin leaned in further and pressed his lips against Scripps’, his eyes slipping shut. Scripps daren’t move, the warm wetness being something he’d never felt before. Hesitantly, he began to shift his mouth slightly, and while he knew the slight groan Dakin let out was in approval he nevertheless felt the inescapable suggestion that he was doing something wrong.

Dakin pulled back and tisked, making Scripps pull further in on himself. Without another second Dakin rose again to his full height and said, “We'll work on it,” before he left Scripps leaning on the wall. Before Dakin left his eye line he turned around and spoke to him again, “Thursday. Around six, and at yours,” and then left, the clicking of his shoes on the stone growing distant.

It echoed around him. _Thursday._ He’d heard the word mentioned uncountable times before but never was it quite this threatening. The door to the church slid shut, leaving Scripps wholly alone for what he could only presume was the first time that afternoon. The idea of praying now was tainted by the memories of Dakin pressed against his front, the smell of his cologne still imbedded in the front of his jumper reminding him of what he’d done.

Scripps pulled his knees up to his chest. His head began to ache with thoughts of doubt, his heart sinking back down his oesophagus and into his stomach. Though the cold of the wall and floor bedded into his clothes like a cat he couldn't bring himself to move. Meaningless quotes fluttered in…

‘... _I am half agony, half hope…’_

...And out....

‘... _Confusion is a luxury which only the very, very young can possibly afford and you are not that young anymore...’_

...Leaving him breathless.

Was this what it was like to fall in love? _Was this what it was like_? He snapped back to his senses and cursed.

_In a church, no less,_ he thought, _what possessed me to do that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Chapter 3 is well on it's way, and will be published on Sunday next week. 
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, comments and bookmarks. :)
> 
> Quotes:
> 
> "I am half agony, half hope," - Jane Austen, Persuasion  
> "Confusion is a luxury which only the very, very young can possibly afford and you are not that young anymore" - James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room


	3. Chapter 3

Three days past like treacle off a spoon.

Twisting the spoon around his mug of tea, Scripps stared at the leaves as they diffused their flavours into the water. The gentle calm of the flat was gently interrupted by the pattering of rain on the windows, which slid down the glass in a river and fell to the floors below. Scripps squeezed the tea bag against the side of the mug and went to retrieve the milk.

He hadn't felt this on edge since he saw  _Vertigo_ for the first time, and he couldn't help but imagine himself as Madeline, or Judy, or Carlotta. Maybe he was Scottie? He didn't quite know, but he knew prancing about with similes and metaphors like this wasn't helping his case of claiming he wasn't repressed. He’d already worn through a grand total of twenty-four pages of his journal, going around in circles, dotting his ‘I’s and crossing his ‘T’s.

And he read, picking apart pages of books he hadn't read for years, searching for quotes to describe his situation. The one that fit best he had written down:

‘ _It seemed to Perry as though he existed ‘deep under-water’ - perhaps because the Row `usually was as grey and quiet as the ocean depths, soundless except for snores, coughs, the whisper of slippered feet, the feathery racket of the pigeons nesting in the prison walls.’_

And now, as he threw the used tea bag into the bin he thought upon it again.

_‘...As though he existed ‘deep under-water...’’_

Scripps was no prisoner. He had never done anything illegal. He’d never lied for his own gain, never threatened others, and certainly never committed murder as Dick and Perry had. Until that fateful meeting in the church Scripps had barely even been in contact with another man, or even kissed anyone for that matter. His heart fluttered as he took his first sip of tea.

But time  _was_ running quite slow in comparison to usual. And it killed him; his own apartment being a depressing beige all over, and the furnishings soaking up any and all music he played.

A word came to mind -  _delicate -_ and he shunned himself.

But no matter how much tea he cleansed himself with the word stuck like chewing gum to the bottom of a train’s table, permanently staining him. He could scrape it off, but that took time, and he didn't have time, no time at all because the clock was just striking six and Dakin--

There was a quiet, yet unmistakable knock at the door, breaking the silence Scripps had carefully developed as a second skin. He left the kitchen and put his mug on the living room table, briefly considering hiding instead of answering it like some kind of delicate coward. The door knocked again, and he spurred himself into action without thinking.

The latch slid, the wood creaked, and before him was one Stuart Dakin; wearing the same damned jacket he wore when he crowded Scripps against the wall. Though this time he seemed far more thoughtful, so thoughtful in fact that Scripps didn't even notice Dakin’s messenger bag hanging off one shoulder. Dakin’s eyes flickered to Scripps’ and the life drew back into them, the same emotions he harboured in the church gracing his features. Scripps stood to the side to let Dakin in, and while Scripps didn't look to his face as he passed he could feel his shadow wash over him.

Now that Dakin was in the room with him everything felt… blue-er, if that were a word. Cooler, perhaps. For all the literature and music he had studied, Scripps still could never quite find the words to describe Dakin. Icy eyes that still appeared warm and inviting, straight backed but relaxed in any circumstance, and exquisitely put together even when the world was falling apart.

(Did people with brown eyes still have the ability to seem icy? Scripps didn't know, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. Something told him as soon as he asked Dakin would either laugh or began to flirt, and truth be told Scripps couldn't quite tell which would be more uncomfortable. But after remembering his situation Scripps assumed it’d be the former.)

Stuart Dakin was an enigma that Scripps could only hope to understand in the future. For now, he could only watch as Dakin dumped his bag by the arm of the couch and took a sip of Scripps’ tea.

“Fuck,” he stated, breaking the scene, “I forgot you don't have sugar in yours,” and he took another sip.

Dakin then began to rummage through his bag single handedly, “I didn't know what kind of stuff you had on hand, so I went for the most likely option and assumed you had nothing.”

“What stuff?” he asked from the entrance to the living room, deliberately keeping his distance. Dakin looked up at him then, wearing the sort of face one would use to address small children. Then he began to grin.

Dakin stood up straight, hiding something from the bag in his sleeve. He shook his head, “I knew you were naive but this is unexpected. We sure do have a lot left to teach you,” he threw what he was holding at Scripps. It hit his palm and Dakin kept talking, “And kissing is oil on the water at this point. Barely the bottom of it.”

Scripps turned his attention to the thing - no, a bottle - Dakin threw him. Mostly full, it felt weighty in his hands, and when he turned it over to look the label read, ‘Lub-’

The bottle fell to the floor. Dakin cackled.

His laughter began to calm, but Scripps was still plastered in the doorway, looking to where the bottle had fallen by his feet. He nudged it slightly but he wasn't quite sure why, it was not as if it was about to jump up and bite him.

“You do want to do this, right?”

He swallowed, “Of course I do. Why?”

Dakin met his eyes calmly, “You seem nervous is all.”

“Obviously I'm nervous,” Scripps picked up the bottle, holding it away from himself, “I've never done… ‘This’ before.”

“I don't want to force you, is all,” he said, beginning to root around in his bag again. Scripps took a few steps towards the couch and watched Dakin rummage, feeling somewhat flustered by the fact that Dakin actually had a soul. A damaged one, and perhaps not totally untainted, but a soul nonetheless. But then Dakin finished rummaging and began to approach him without a moment's hesitation, causing Scripps to back up.

The bottle fell to the floor again, its noise going unnoticed.

The sharp corner of his desk hit the bottom of his spine and he gasped. Before he knew it Dakin pressed himself onto Scripps’ front, his hands clutching the edges of the desk with the body he was trying to conquer trapped between them.

Oh fuck.

Dakin pressed against him, similarly to before. He leaned in close, similarly to before. And he asked, “Tell me if something’s wrong?” before slowly - oh so slowly - leaning in.

There were no fireworks, but instead the deep and unforgiving feeling of sinking slowly into the ocean depths: his stomach plummeting and ears ringing with the pressure. Dakin slid one hand onto his waist, resting above the hem of his jeans, but Scripps was absolutely still, body refusing to register that he needed to respond.

Scripps could do nothing before Dakin pulled back, and He began to shrink under Dakin’s demanding gaze, but he was only halfway to the floor when Dakin snapped him out of his spiral.

“Are you trying whatsoever?”

Furrowing his brow, Scripps replied, “It's not as if I have much experience with this sort of thing-”

“Obviously.”

“-So can you blame me?”

Dakin considered this and finally said, “Mimic me, okay?”

He sniffed, “I'll try. Now cut to the chase.”

“It might help if you actually attempted to touch me. You look like you want to bolt.” Dakin leaned in again, his hands moving Scripps’ to place one on his hips, threading the thumbs into his belt loops. Keeping eye contact, he murmured. “ And I wouldn't call it a chase. You’re not running,” before capturing Scripps’ mouth with his again.

Though strange, Scripps wholeheartedly believed he was getting better at this whole ‘kissing’ thing. The deep sinking feeling returned to him but it was less of an overwhelming plunge and more of a gentle descent. Dakin pulled back and pressed in again, his body hovering over Scripps’. He could feel the temperature in the room increase, a bead of sweat sliding down the line of his chest, in between what little of his pectoral muscles remained after a fair few years of misuse.

The wind was knocked out of Scripps. Dakin had pressed against him fully now, mirroring what he had done in the church not three days earlier. Scripps pulled back, one of his hands slipping from its grasp on Dakin’s waist and replaced its hold with the table. It felt like that grip was the only thing keeping him upright. A sinful hand pressed at his own hip, plucking the jumper free from his stomach.

A press of teeth came and went along his neck, ghosting kisses down his jaw. Scripps felt himself go up onto the balls of his toes. He gasped for breath. “Dakin,” he moaned, “Dakin,  _Dakin.”_

Scripps pressed his forehead into the crook of Dakin’s neck and let out a rippled breath, wet and heavy. He dared to open his eye but closed them again almost immediately when Dakin let out a far too unnatural sounding chuckle. That cursed hand trailed gently up his chest, pulling his jumper up and exposing the pouch of fat on his stomach. His stomach fluttered. His legs began to shudder and shake, then clenched.

Dakin moved backwards. All the air rushed back into Scripps at once. His head span. Scripps wasn't even looking at Dakin when he spoke up again, “Though I appreciate the enthusiasm I don't think we want this party ending quite that quickly.” Dakin pulled back further, his eyes not leaving Scripps. Watching as Dakin’s eyes slid shut, he sunk back onto his feet. With practiced movements Dakin slid off the jacket that Scripps had loathed for so long. He draped it over the back of the sofa.

When Dakin opened his eyes again he didn't even register Scripps before going into his bag. He fished something out and pocketed it immediately. He then bent at the waist to pick up the bottle of lube (which he still struggled to say, even if the reality of the situation had hit him), and pocketed that too. A thought about Dakin’s pockets floated in and out of his head speedier than a leaf in a fast moving stream.

He made a gesture. Scripps blinked.

“Well? Though I must admit you look rather fetching, are you going to take off your jumper or what?” he asked.

Scripps shut in on himself, “Don't  _stare_ at me, Dakin.”

There was an improbable silence at that statement. Dakin looked at him, face uncharacteristically neutral. He then tilted his head, as if not quite believing what Scripps had said.

“Scripps. In less than fifteen minutes we are both going to be fully naked. And you're still shy enough to ask me to look away?” he tisked, “Watching is half the fun! You do realise you’re going to have to get used to undressing while being looked at if you actually intend to do this again, right?”

Looking down at himself, Scripps considered Dakin’s words and grasped his jumper’s hem. And although the next hesitation was miniscule, Dakin could take no more. He strut forward, one foot boldly in front of the other, and got up into Scripps’ face again.

“If you won't do it, “ he replaced Scripps’ hands with his own, “I will.”

Scripps hiked himself onto the desk and pawed at Dakin’s hands, pulling the jumper back down. Dakin made a noise and forced himself between Scripps’ legs, “Are you going to do it yourself?” he asked, but Scripps made a noise in place of a reply, and Dakin asked again: “Are you going to do it yourself, like I asked? Like a good boy?”

The struggle stopped. “‘A good boy’?” Scripps repeated, not quite believing what Dakin had said.

“Ignore that. Are you going to do it yourself or what?”

Scripps sniffed and slipped off the desk, getting uncomfortably close to Dakin. Scripps realised in a brief moment of weakness that he was the one that drew their faces closer. He slipped his eyes shut and refused to raise his head, even when Dakin stood back to give him space. He fingered the hem of his jumper, drawing it up slightly so that a thin band of skin could be seen should someone look.

Someone was indeed looking.

Feeling the hot uneasiness of being watched, Scripps resided with himself about keeping them both in wait. He ignored the wash of humiliation that when through him when Dakin eyed him up, and he ignored the way his legs clenched together at the thought of Dakin touching him again.

The paralyzing moment of having Dakin out of his sight shook him, but when his vision returned Dakin hadn't moved. He pulled the jumper from his arms, letting his head raise when he threw it to Dakin - an attempt to ruffle him, perhaps.

Dakin, being the insufferable bastard he was, caught it.

He huffed, “happy now?”

Dakin hummed, leering at him, “I thought you’d be more unkempt than this.” he tossed the jumper onto the sofa and walked around Scripps slightly, but Scripps couldn't tell if it was to unsettle him or to get a better angle. “You're much more… plush than I expected you to be. And these-” he went directly into Scripps’ personal space to put his hand on Scripps’ chest, the thumb brushing over a nipple, “-are what I dare call  _plump._ ”

“Fuck  _off,_ Dakin.”

Dakin actually cackled at that, and Scripps felt Dakin grasp at the softness on the inside of his thigh.

“Now,” he breathed, “You take off my shirt.”

Scripps blinked. Dakin waited.

“Your shirt? I thought you said you had to get used to being watched?”

Dakin shook his head, the smirk never quite slipping. “You’re learning how to get someone off, and how to let them get you off in turn. I, on the other hand, have already learnt. I know how to take off someone's shirt and how to take off my own -”

“You didn't know how to take off your own shirt before you began fucking people?”

“Fuck off. I learnt how to take off someone else’s shirt and how to take off my own  _while seducing someone_. That’s the key phrase there. You don't know how to slide your hands up. How to act in a manner that suggests you know what you’re doing. And you don't know how to be confident. I’m teaching you that.”

“But why can't you take off your own shirt?”

The smile fell from Dakin’s face, being replaced with a scowl. “You can't do as I say? You're rather contrary sometimes, Scripps.”

“I am when your requests are so ridiculous. Take it off yourself, for fucks sake.”

Dakin stood back to give himself room to move. He announced, “This is why you have to learn how to take off your shirt in front of other people,” before he pounced into action. His hands ran down his sides, his arms brushed across his body, and his chest moved outward as he went to grasp the back of his shirt. Scripps watched as it was drawn over his head, how it obscured his features. Dakin emerged from the depths of his own clothing, shaking his head slightly to get the hair out of his eyes (or was it to make Scripps focus on the way Stuart’s chest actually had some defined muscle?).

Then he actually reached up to tousle his hair and Scripps loathed his insides when they twitched. He forced himself to look away, but his head wasn't cooperating, his mind swimming lower on Dakin’s body to look at his chest, ribs, and stomach. Dakin put an arm out to raise Scripps’ gaze for him, and meeting it head on he have a little (dare Scripps say) shy smile.

Without thinking Scripps slid off the desk so that he was nearly chest-to-chest with Dakin again. He looked to the side, delicately ignoring how he was slightly shorter. However, he could not ignore the faint but undeniable smells that lingered between them: tea, cologne, the sweetness of mint and a tang of… marmite, was it? But that didn't matter. What mattered was the fact that Dakin was so close.

“See what I mean?” he whispered. “It’s nice to watch.”

He could feel Dakin’s fingers carding through his hair, their bodies mingling again. Scripps felt himself murmur a confirmation before Dakin stole his breath from him again.

Scripps didn't even hesitate this time before he returned it. The fingers tightened, and a pair of hands found their way into the pockets of Dakin’s jeans. A slow groan fell out from between them. Time had slowed down to a crawl, but Scripps wasn't in the best state to measure it slip by.

Dakin’s hand slipped into a belt loop and he tugged them both backwards, their mouths never quite getting far enough away to be called parting. He was in the middle of showing Scripps a rather lovely technique of sucking on Scripps’ lip when he eventually found what he was looking for.

A yelp sounded across the room when Scripps’ back made contact with the gloss of his bedroom door, the freckled plains of his back making full contact with the cool surface. He shivered, not from the cold alone, and forced Dakin to let go of his fumble on the door handle. Scripps twisted his hand and they fell through, not quite hitting the ground but close enough for them to stumble apart.

Scripps panted when Dakin stopped his assault on his mouth, letting the musty air in the room fill his lungs. Dakin, apparently not needing to breathe, started to mark up his neck as he manoeuvred them to the bed across the room. Their movements jolted to a stop as Scripps hit the bed with the back of his knees and they fell to the bed, Dakin’s mouth dislodging.

Gasping for breath, Scripps felt like a fish out of water. He felt the seam of his jeans pressing against him, the tightness making his head loll from side to side. The room was smaller than it usually was, Scripps swore. There was no way he could have remained sane if the room was always this small. He didn't have time to dwell on the matter as Dakin emerged again in his field of view, his eyes half lidded and glossy.

“Okay.” he said, wetly.

Their legs dangled over the edge of the bed, tangled together. Scripps could only imagine his past self seeing him now - would he have hated himself for giving in? Would he be jealous? Or perhaps even gleeful, looking forward to the day that he would be pressed under Dakin too.

He made a gasp for air, falling short and needing to make another one. He didn't notice Dakin watching him struggle until he gave Scripps a bit of space, putting half a metre between them. He didn't say anything before Scripps managed to calm down, and held onto his arm as he waited.

Scripps took a couple more deep breaths. He waited for Dakin to say something: An insult, perhaps, or even something vaguely comforting.

“You alright?” Dakin asked.

It took a moment, but a shaky breath later he replied, “Yeah.”

There was a moment - short as a second and thin as spider silk. Dakin took Scripps’ hand in his and ran his thumb over the knuckles. They made eye contact, and slowly, Dakin raised the hand to his face. Scripps swallowed the lump in his throat, unsure what to expect.

A kiss on the hand? Was that too normal?

Dakin put two fingers into his mouth and sucked.

His body stopped working. Or at least it felt like it did. Dakin ran his tongue through the gaps in his fingers - middle and index. Was he supposed to respond? He didn't know what to say. He let out a breathy noise in place of words. It seemed to please the demon above him as he hummed, and Scripps could only imagine what it’d be like on… other places. Rather, other parts of the body. Not there! Maybe higher. Maybe.

There was a pinch of teeth on the inside of his fingertip and Scripps watched as Dakin slipped them out of his mouth. He missed the warmth, the wetness cooling in the still air of the room. He twitched his fingers and they brushed against Dakin’s open mouth, catching on his bottom teeth. Scripps withdrew his hand with minimal resistance. Evidently Dakin wasn't planning on that being the only thing he introduced Scripps to that evening, and truth be told, it scared him slightly.

What other ill intended things did Dakin wish to do to him?

It was apparently enough of a pause for Dakin to take initiative, forcing Scripps onto his back and climbing aboard in one fell swoop. Scripps arched into the pressure, a strangled groan falling out of him. Dakin chuckled and grabbed a handful of Scripps’ chest, a deliberate finger toying with a nipple. Scripps felt his dick twitch and Dakin laughed louder, grinded down.

Scripps huffed, ribs falling suddenly. He looked to the side of the room and lifted his hips. He could feel his control slipping away from him like water out of the palm of his hand.

He made the mistake of actually looking at Dakin then, and he shuddered with his whole body. He wringed the duvet in his hands, trying to focus on anything other than the coiling in his abdomen. He gasped when Dakin put a single, cold hand on his chest again.

“ _God, Scripps,”_  he ground out, “If only you could see yourself.” Dakin rolled his hips. “Would you like seeing yourself like this? Your blush goes all the way down, even under-”

Scripps froze, his body contracting and legs drawing up. His head was thrown back and he let out a long and strangled groan.  _Fuck,_  he thought,  _fuck, fuck._  A shiver rattled through him, and he couldn't stop shaking. His back bent, his stomach fluttered, his eyes clenched shut. Somewhere in his mind he recognised he was making a noise, but at that point, when the body on his was so warm and inviting, when the aftershocks of bliss rippled through him like water, he couldn't bring himself to care. Slowly, gently, the shivers stopped, and he began to lay flat back on the bed. Both he and his body groaned, and Scripps blearily opened his eyes to the golden light. 

But the sunlight streaming into the room like curtains couldn't be so bohemian forever. And the stillness of the air was once again closing in, making a fine sheen of sweat roll off him. He hadn't realised he had opened his eyes. He also hadn't realised that he wasn't supposed to have done that.

He cracked his eyes open, feeling like he was staring into the sun. Was the room this bright before? He moved his head slightly, so he wasn't looking straight into the evening light.

A distinct chuckle awoke him from his haze (and it could only be called a haze, because a mist was too thin and a smog too thick), reminding him of what exactly had been occurring before he had gotten carried away with himself. He braced himself and found the source of the noise.

Dakin, no longer sitting on him but hovering above, waited for the penny to drop. Something in Dakin's visage was hungry and bold. His hands were in fists either side of Scripps’ ribs, almost in wait, but for what Scripps didn't quite know.

“Whelp,” He stated, looking over the body beneath him, “That doesn't count.”

It took a second for Scripps to pick up his brain from where it had blown out across the bed. “What?” He asked, not registering what Dakin had said.

“That doesn't count. You may think it does but I say it doesn't so it doesn't.”

His brain was far too slow at the moment to actually register what Dakin was saying. “I don't…”

“That wasn't your first sexual experience with another man because I fully intend to teach you the ins and outs of it. This is NOT the ins and outs, but a minor setback you'd have experienced sooner or later.” Dakin said, then nodded to himself, satisfied that what he said made sense and wasn't too much for Scripps’ post-orgasm state of mind to handle.

Scripps panted shallowly and could only stare up at him, dazed and still half hard. He settled for a question, too weak to argue, “So what now?”  

“Now I get you hard again,” Scripps cringed at the phrasing, “And we keep going.”

“But I just-!” he cut himself off. Dakin waited for him to say the word and Scripps swallowed. He started again, weakened under Dakin’s gaze, “But I just...came.”

His mouth stretched to a cat-like smile. But then he spoke and the illusion was gone, “you're below the age of thirty, Scripps, I could probably get you off eight times in a row and you wouldn’t feel tired.” Dakin moved one of his hands to press against Scripps’ belly, trailing his fingers lower and making the body underneath him arch into his touch. He slipped his hand under the buckle of Scripps’ belt.

Scripps’ eyes went wide; “don't-” and he pulled his leg up, perhaps to shield himself from Dakin’s prying fingers.

Those fingers stilled. “What's up?” Dakin asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I- No, nothing. I just. You know-”

“You're new to this, I know. I’ll go slow,” he said, and Scripps was too busy looking into his eyes for any lies to notice the hiss of his belt being pulled from the loops.

He looked down then, at the closeness of their bodies and couldn't help but feel lost. He knew himself, but the nagging thoughts of self-doubt insisted that he was doing something wrong. Perhaps he was.

Scripps reached toward Dakin then, letting his hands slip beneath the buckle to get them off. He never quite realised how awkward it was to work things in reverse, and his hands fumbled. The painful sound of him dropping the belt echoed around the room, forcing him to pick it up again and start over. He could feel Dakin’s thumbs brushing over the dip of his hips, just below the waistband. Finally,  _fucking finally,_ it slipped free, and Scripps was able to throw it over the side of the bed. He ignored the unhappy hiss it made as it hit the floor.

Dakin leant down to kiss him, sliding his hands further into Scripps’ trousers. Scripps arched slightly into the kiss, letting out a slight huff of breath when Dakin slipped his tongue into his mouth. He couldn't help but roll his hips, even though he knew he was still sensitive. Dakin pressed his hands deeper into the back of Scripps’ trousers, pinching a thigh as he did.

Scripps hardly noticed when Dakin began dragging them down, too busy getting lost in the feeling of being under someone. A sudden yank pulled him out of his delirium, forcing him to arch in order to stop Dakin from tearing down his boxers with his jeans. He didn't realise he'd let a strangled noise escaped until Dakin looked at him in alarm.

“You alright?” He asked, pulling Scripps’ jeans down further.

Dakin grinned as Scripps made frustrated noises and kicked, trapped by his own clothes. Scripps wrestled free and lay back down with a huff of breath, meeting his eyes with a shy smile. He didn't need to reply for Dakin to know he was fine.

Once the offending items were out of Dakin’s way there was nothing to stop him from clambering atop, perching on Scripps’ thighs. He pressed an open hand to the centre of Scripps’ chest, drawing his attention.

He chuckled, “it’s like you were made to be under me.”

Dakin dragged his hand down Scripps, eventually reaching his own jeans. A huff of breath made him look into Scripps’ eyes in time to feel his hands taking over his own. He took his own hands away, watching the dark liquidness of Scripps’ eyes as they focused on the button and zipper. Their gaze met.

“You alright, Stu?”

A surprisingly soft smile etched it's way across his features. He hummed sweetly in agreement, and then moved his hands to take Scripps’. Smirking, he slipped those hands down the back of his jeans, brushing over the cotton of his briefs.

Raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘well?’ Dakin ground back onto the hands, teasing. Scripps slid them down, waiting for Dakin to make some comment. A praise, maybe.

A kick and a grunt later, Dakin’s jeans fell off the end of the bed. One of his hands found the waistband of Scripps’ boxers, slipping down past them to touch bare flesh, grasping and grabbing at the soft curve of Scripps’ arse. Scripps struggled desperately to find somewhere else to look, but finding nothing he turned back to the weight on his thighs - Dakin, tantalisingly close and mouth watering.

He ground down onto Scripps, making them both shiver with the feeling of only a thin layer between them.

“Do you want to feel me?” he asked, taking his hand out of Scripps’ pants and raising his arms above his head, stretching himself out to look appetising. A tentative hand moved forward, pausing before reaching the pudge of Dakin’s thigh. Perched like a hawk in wait, Dakin was motionless. Scripps moved his hand to gently press his hand into the softness of it, feeling the muscle beneath.

“Not  _just_ there, mate,” he muttered, ignoring Scripps’ undignified sputter, “other places too.” Dakin slid his hand over Scripps’. “Like my thigh. The inside too.”

Moving his palm lower, the softness of the skin ran over him. Then it struck him - Dakin was the first person he’d ever been so intimate with, the first person he’d actually deliberately felt the skin of. Actually feeling the texture and smoothness, Scripps ran his hand over the delicate skin of the thigh, surprised at the warmth.

He squeezed, and with a positively complacent grin, Dakin let out a deliberately loud moan, raising his hips and pressing his cock on Scripps’, slotting them together.

Scripps ripped his hand away like he had been burnt. “Fuck  _off,_  Dakin,” he hissed.

The grin grew wider. “Oh. Fuck, Scrippsy,” he nearly yelled, making himself breathy and overworked in his voice alone. Scripps glared, learning that all attempts to stop Dakin would make the situation all the more worse.

Dakin’s dark chuckle died down and he waited a moment before spurring once again into action. He slid off Scripps, who whined at the loss of the weight and heat, and grabbed his jeans from their position on the floor.

“Right,” he said, returning to his seat on Scripps, “So tell me, Scripps. What do you actually know about making love to another man?”

Scripps went to reply, but as he opened his mouth Dakin threw the contents of his pockets over the bed. Two condoms, lubricant, and a cherry flavoured throat sweet. Scripps waited, watching the condoms like they were going to jump up and bite him. He twisted his hands into the sheets.

“Uh.” he swallowed. “Not a lot.”

“Yes, but how much is ‘not a lot’?”

He tried his best to clarify, “Just-” he began, “enough through what I've heard from others.”

“Do you know how to finger someone?”

Scripps clenched his body, from his eyes, to his stomach, to his toes, contracting. He whispered, “I know the basics.”

Instead of addressing him to tell him it was enough (like he had hoped), Dakin ignored him in effort of reclaiming the bottle of lube so that it was in his hand instead of beside Scripps’ head. He took hold of Scripps’ wrist, bringing it upwards. However, unlike before, he didn't put them in his mouth.

He popped the cap and let a healthy dollop of the stuff roll over the pads of Scripps’ index and middle fingers, letting the coolness of it disappear from the warmth of his hand. Scripps watched it drip, the light catching as it did. He looked back at Dakin, a sort of half overwhelmed, half daunted look on his face.

Predictably, Dakin ignored this in favour of gripping his waistband. Before pulling them down, he met his gaze.

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what you see?” he asked, and pulled the final defence down.

Scripps felt Dakin’s dick on the inside of his thigh. He deliberately didn't look; much to Dakin’s dismay, but no comment was made.

He didn't voice how thankful he was.

A single drop of the lube fell from Scripps’ hand and onto the bed sheets. They watched it seep into the fabric, a little darker spot contrasting with the lighter blue. Scripps didn't breathe until Dakin spoke up.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Scripps exhaled, voice unnaturally breathy and soft.

Dakin grasped at Scripps’ wrist and brought it closer to him again, this time aiming far lower on his body. Scripps looked up from the drip on the bed and watched Dakin raise himself up onto his knees, no longer fully resting on Scripps.

He watched the curve of Dakin’s penis bob slightly. He imagined that if he were to compare them Dakin would be slightly longer, with himself being slightly thicker. Dakin guided his hand so that his fingers pressed on the tight surface. After a moment he shifted them, spreading it over the surface. Although Scripps knew he wasn't the best acquainted with penises and anuses, he couldn't help but feel like this was some sick joke. How on earth was he supposed to fit in there?

The tip of his middle finger breached the hard ring of muscle, and Dakin chose that moment to speak up, his voice slightly strained but none the less as confident as he was before.

“Push it in a little further, yeah? Though you're lovely, Scripps, I don't want to be here forever.”

He pushed back to emphasise his point, and when Scripps pushed in another couple of centimetres he felt Dakin flutter around him, squeezing and letting go, somewhat like it was his hand instead of his ass holding it.

“You alright there, Stu-”

“I know you're worried,” he breathed, eyes closed and facing the ceiling, “but I’m fine, and even if I wasn't fine I’d tell you. But  _God, Scrippsy,”_  he moaned out, shifting a little as Scripps pressed his finger deeper, “with a little practice you could,” he grunted, “You could make a living doing this.”

Scripps could only watch as Dakin moved above him, the evening light casting his shadow on the wall behind him and catching in his hair. If he weren't so busy Scripps would have written a page or three about how Dakin contrasted himself in the best way possible - icy cold in conversation and warm and welcoming in bed; Teasing and a bit frightening in his actions, but unnervingly persistent in every situation.

He couldn't help but wonder that if he kept giving, how much would Dakin take?

He swirled his fingers, pressing on the impossible softness of the walls. Scripps didn't have anything to compare feeling felt to. His immediate thought was the inside of one's thighs, but that didn't feel quite right. It struck him. Dakin’s mouth. He longed to swivel his other hand within his own mouth to check to see if the texture matched, but Dakin interrupted his train of thought.

“Will you stick another finger in me already?”

Gripping Dakin’s right thigh to keep him steady, Scripps pulled his finger out to the tip, let his other finger rest on the rim, and slowly, oh so slowly, pushed them inside together. He twisted them slightly once they were inside, and to his own surprise the inside of his wrist brushed gently on Dakin’s balls.

Dakin let out a stuttered breath, sinking slightly onto Scripps’ fingers, burying them deeper. He didn't seem to realise (or if he did, he didn't care) that Scripps was mostly feeling around, getting deeper as he went. He brushed against something rubbery and round.

“A-ah!” Dakin cried out.

In alarm he looked up, but got caught halfway on his way to Dakin’s face. There, on the tip of his penis, was a pearly bead of come, barely visible. He ignored Dakin’s frustrated mutterings in favour of raising a single hand (one he didn't quite realise he was controlling) to press the pad of one finger onto the tip of Dakin’s dick.

He let out a heavy breath, chuckling a little at the end, but before Dakin could speak Scripps’ fingers twitched again inside him, brushing his prostate. The reaction was less violent this time, more syrupy and sweet, ending in a much higher tone than it started with. Scripps formed a fist around Dakin without thinking, stroking up and down tortuously slow, using what little precome Dakin had to ease his actions.

Dakin drew his attention. The wild and hungry look was back, far less pristine in comparison to before. His body shook when Scripps pressed in again, pulling his fingers slightly apart to aid them getting deeper. Dakin’s legs shook, ready to give out.

“Can we switch? I don't think your legs are about to give out,” he growled, drawing a breath when Scripps deliberately twitched his fingers inside him.

Scripps slid his fingers out, shaking his hand to loosen the joints. He tried not to cringe at the noise they made as they left him. Dakin clambered off Scripps, his back curled and hair sweaty. Scripps didn't quite notice before (too focused on  _other_ things perhaps) but Dakin wasn't wearing ridiculous amount of hair gel. Scripps could only assume Dakin thought they’d get hot, and based on the dampness of his own hair he’d be right.

The bed dipped behind him and Scripps rolled onto his front, lying on Dakin’s legs.

Right there, below where his chin would have rested should he not have been careful, was Dakin’s crotch. The cock bobbed before his very eyes and Dakin laughed. Scripps huffed and smeared his fingers over the (now much looser) pucker. Dakin didn't even flinch when he was breached again, but when those same fingertips pressed his prostate he couldn't help but keen as the pleasure rippled through him. Scripps smirked, watching the smile slip off Dakin’s face like water.

He saw Dakin swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Scripps watched his neck strain when he pressed that spot inside him again, fixated on the openness so unusual in Dakin’s appearance. He saw Dakin

Scripps shuffled up Dakin’s body, carefully avoiding contact with anything below the waist, until he reached a position where he could see Dakin's face. Well, his neck, but that counted too. Dakin looked at him, but when Scripps looked back he’d lost focus. Scripps leaned down to kiss where his chin met neck, and Dakin made a strained noise.

Hands grabbed at Scripps, pulling them together again. Scripps fully relaxed into the kiss, moving his fingers around as best he could. But eventually even they stilled. It felt like it could have gone on forever, lost in one another’s frantic movements. He sighed into the kiss, his abdomen relaxing. Distantly he felt the wet head of Dakin’s dick leave a trail of moisture over him, slight but none the less there.

They broke apart.

“Okay,” Dakin said, catching his breath. Scripps waited, his hand motionless. He could feel the chest below him rise and fall, pressing against his. An eye cracked open to meet his, staring at one another for a moment before it looked away. “Okay,” he repeated, “I think I’m ready.”

Scripps took a moment to process what Dakin had said, but evidently he wasn't quick enough.

“Well? Are you just going to watch?”

He redrew his hand, wincing at the grunt Dakin let out. Dakin grabbed and threw a condom at Scripps but didn't wait for him to stop fumbling before he grabbed the lube too. This time he didn't throw it to him. Scripps’ fingers slipped on the foil and he muttered under his breath, the flush returning in full force, highlighting his embarrassment. Dakin, leaning back to watch Scripps, raised an eyebrow.

“You do it.” Scripps eventually said. He chucked the condom to Dakin, who slapped himself on the chest in his attempt to catch it.

“You've made it all greasy now,” he whined, picking at the edges. He gripped and it slipped. He gripped again and it slipped again. He let out a frustrated noise, bit a corner and pulled. The package tore. “There.” he said, satisfied with himself. He handed it to Scripps.

“Didn't that tear it?”

“Only one way to find out!” Dakin said, positively gleeful. He leaned back on the pillows and wiggled to get comfortable, keeping his eyes hooded and focused on Scripps’ wide-eyed stare.

Gingerly, Scripps put the condom on the bed. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, stopping himself before he could carry on with his automatic actions. He breathed in and out, and slid them down.

“Can you not stare at me?”

Dakin hooked a playful finger into his mouth, and Scripps didn't have to imagine what that felt like. “And miss a show like this? Never. Close your eyes, Scrippsy.” He purred.

Scripps forced himself to look away from the bed, looking again at the windows. It was nearly dark outside, the rain no longer lashing against the window but still coming down just as hard. He focused on the white noise it created and pulled his final defence down. For some reason his first instinct was to pull them down slowly, shucking them off his hips in a way only his dreams had imagined before now; never on himself, always on the anonymous faces of others. Until recently he didn't even begin applying gender to them.

His boxers hit the bed. Dakin whistled.

“Fuck  _off,_ Dakin.” He hissed, lacking the force he would have liked.

Dakin, ever knowing of what to do in situations like this, made it worse.

“Is that a mole or a spot?” He asked, reaching out to pinch Scripps hip, “I didn't even notice your dick because while, yes, it's big, that fucking mole-spot thing is  _huge,_  Scrippsy.”

Scripps huffed, pulling back from Dakin's prying hands. “Dakin, please.”

“Answer me and I'll drop it.”

“Drop it or I'll leave you here.”

“Leave me? Even if you did would you want me alone with your sheets? I'm not opposed to wanking in other people's beds, Scripps.”

“Of course you aren't, Dakin. How could I forget how shameless you are?”

There was a lapse in the conversation as Scripps struggled to regain his composure. Dakin settled back into the sheets, the same coy smile and half-lidded eyes Scripps would more likely see on a demon than a human.

Scripps clenched his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing. He opened them briefly to find the opened condom and deliberately didn't look above Dakin’s knees. He fished the condom out of the foil. He tossed the wrapper aside and pinched the tip of the condom with his left hand, placing it over the head of his penis. He took a deep breath, settling himself and still feeling the eyes on him.

He hesitated.

Immediately, the condom was gone from his hands, and his arms pushed aside. “Let me,” he said, more of a demand than a question. Dakin pulled at the tip, holding it steady with his right. He held it over the tip, exactly as Scripps had done, but refused to pause before rolling it down the shaft. Scripps gasped when Dakin ran his hand up and down him a couple of times before he pulled back.

“Sorted?” He asked but didn't wait for an answer. He settled back into his pillowy throne and hiked a leg up; pulling his balls taught in a way Scripps could not believe for a moment was comfortable.

“Are you going to fuck me already?” Dakin said, far breathier than needed, “You look like you want to run.”

“I will,” Scripps strained, delicately positioning himself between Dakin’s open legs. He hunched himself over slightly, grasping the sheets.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

“For fucks sake, Scripps. I've done this before with cocks far more impressive than yours. I can take it. Now stop delaying this further.”

Grasping the base of his penis, Scripps forced himself to oblige with Dakin's command and pushed the very tip of his penis into him. He clenched his eyes, letting the pressure subside before he dared move again.

Dakin shifted, moving Scripps from where he was inside him. He let out a stuttered breath, keeping himself as calm as possible. He eventually looked at Scripps, face far softer than Scripps could ever remember seeing it.

“You alright?” He asked, and Scripps nodded.

As silly as it sounded, Scripps couldn't help but feel like he was doing okay. He hadn't completely ruined the moment by doing something stupid, and still managed to hold his ground against Dakin's teasing earlier.

Then in a moment of uncharacteristic confidence, Scripps pushed in a little further. He whimpered when Dakin fluttered around him, but it couldn't be heard over the long and arduous groan Dakin let loose. 

Scripps eventually bottomed out with a relieved huff. He shifted in an attempt to lessen the tightness but that only made Dakin get tighter, squeezing him as a fist would. “Okay,” Scripps murmured, focusing on the shape of Dakin's waist, “tell me when you're-”

“Scripps,” Dakin interrupted, dragging him down by the scruff of his neck, “fuck me?”

His words were stolen from him with a kiss, all he would have said gone from his mind in a second. Scripps struggled against the stream of thoughts swimming through his head. It all felt like far too much, like the end of it all and the middle at once. He let out a breath when he and Dakin broke apart. Gently, oh so gently, he pulled out slightly. He focused on the tingling of his hips, which struggled not to immediately thrust back into the warmth.

Whoever said condoms muted the sensations was a fucking liar.

“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He forced himself to move back in, attempting to find a rhythm in his thinking and in his actions. For the first time ever Scripps let his mind and himself go, letting the swinging of his hips move for him.

It was suddenly so absurdly easy.

He apparently didn't need to focus on his movements so much because Dakin sure wasn't complaining. He sighed underneath him, arching his spine and presenting his chest. Scripps was tempted to do something, though his body didn't react, so he could only assume he didn't need to.

Dakin brushed his hand over Scripps’ chest, feeling the fine map of freckles and small hairs. He let his head roll back onto the pillows, keeping his hand where it was. He felt a huff of breath on his wrist and he smiled.

“You- you alright?” Scripps asked, breath shaky.

“More,” Dakin said, grasping at the pillows. “More.”

Scripps sped slightly, moving at a faster pace. He didn't quite go all the way inside again, instead opting for trying to find a better angle. He shifted his movements, thrusting slightly more upward than before. He slid a hand underneath Dakin, holding the small of his back, then rested his forehead in the crook of his neck. Dakin’ breathing hitched as Scripps finally struck his prostate, then he moaned, high and drawn out and needy.

With a final barrier broken, Scripps mouthed at the tendons on Dakin’s neck, marking him like he belonged to him. Scripps let his mind wonder, sucking tiny vampire bites under his chin. Dakin raised his hips and moaned, grabbing a handful of Scripps’ hair. He tugged, but Scripps didn't pay any mind to it, instead breaking off and thinking about the marks he had left. Would Dakin be proud of them? Or embarrassed? Would he run off and show Akthar or Rudge?

Dakin tugged sharply on his hair, forcing his head backwards. A sinfully hot mouth pressed a toothy kiss to his jaw, then lower on his neck, and lower still on his shoulder. Dakin groaned into Scripps’ skin after a particularly deep thrust.

After another red welt was branded into his skin Dakin let go of his hair, instead pulling them together again. He took breaths between each of their kisses; his tiny little gasps encouraging Scripps further. Dakin reached up, putting the palm of his hand on Scripps’ jaw.

“You have… no idea, Donald,” Dakin breathed. “How… how much.” He traced Scripps’ cheek with his fingertips.

He didn't bother asking for clarification, too involved with the foreign sensations. He’d only felt this in flickers before now, never in the full and overwhelming force that consumed him in this moment. He grunted when Dakin clenched around him and he felt the ripple-like pleasure tingling up and down his spine, making him bow his head.

“You’re doing,” Dakin began, but stopped to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Scripps slowed down slightly to listen to Dakin but he struggled to concentrate.

His head felt like it were sloshing from side to side, soupy and dumb. Having no idea if sex usually did this, Scripps began to slow down with the intention of letting Dakin catch his breath. Only then did he realise how heavy his own breaths were.

Dakin moved to hold his face with both hands, making their eyes meet. The darkness of Dakin’s pupils captivated Scripps, the brown irises completely gone at first glance. Scripps couldn't help but wonder if his were the same.

“You're doing so well,” Dakin said after a moment, sounding dreamy and off kilter. Scripps smiled and pressed his cheek into Dakin’s hand. For a single terrifying moment Scripps felt a flutter of something in his chest, something he hadn't felt for over five years, but the fear that followed was familiar and all consuming, and reminded him of many years prior.

Thankfully Dakin didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he didn’t care. Something told Scripps it was the latter, partly because of Dakin’s insufferable personality and partly because he kept talking.

“Don’t stop thrusting, yeah? You were going a bit too fast.” Dakin said. “We don’t want this,” his breath hitched slightly when Scripps began his thrusting again, albeit much slower than before, “to end too soon.”

Scripps buried his face into Dakin’s shoulder, “not after all the work getting here.” He murmured.

“No,” he agreed.

Dakin reached out to grasp a handful of Scripps’ hair, prying him away from his neck in an unexpected act of force. But Dakin didn’t use the moment. He watched Scripps’ face, his eyes dragging across his features. Scripps failed to pay attention to his rhythm and slowed to a crawl. He stopped completely and waited for Dakin to say something.

“Find what you’re looking for?” He asked.

Dakin smirked. “Of course.”

And of course Scripps couldn't expect a real answer. And of course Scripps should have expected Dakin to reach over and grab a handful of his pert arse. But just because he couldn’t expect it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Scripps shifted forward, attempting to dislodge the hand that drew them closer together, but Dakin was persistent if anything.

“Are you done?” Scripps asked, trying not to look below Dakin’s ribs, but it was difficult not to when the nearly bed-shaking laugh was felt all around him. Dakin squeezed again, his laugh calming down.

With his empty hand Dakin took the lube. Scripps watched him, eyes tracking the movements, wary of another ill-timed joke. He dripped the substance in the palm of his right hand, letting it warm up slightly. Their eyes met, and with an obnoxious raised eyebrow and an almost surly smile Dakin expectantly said, “well?”

Glaring, Scripps debated staying still but he dismissed the idea immediately. He was a patient man, but in times like these patience was not enough.

He thrust a little, attempting to regain his rhythm, but he took Dakin’s previous words to heart and deliberately didn’t let himself get lost in his actions. Though Dakin refusing to let go of his arse probably helped him maintain the speed.

Scripps eyed the lube in Dakin’s hand, wary of it being smeared on or in undesirable places, but Dakin seemed to be waiting, his head tilted back into the plush bedding and his eyes closed. They fluttered slightly when Dakin sounded a quiet groan. Somewhere in the back of his head he realised that he’d hit the prostate again and deliberately aimed toward it. If he had to describe his movements in this half-a-minded state it could only be called ‘up,’ but he didn’t have to, so he didn't bother.

A single dollop of the lube fell to the sheets. Dakin, so characteristically lazy and aloof, let his hand drop down onto his dick. And Scripps resided with himself about looking. Was it such a sin to watch when he was already in the middle of the act?

Dakin sure didn’t seem to think so. He raised his hips, aiding in finding the angle Scripps so desperately tried to hit.

“Yeah,” Dakin murmured, half delirious as he stroked himself, “you’re doing good.”

Scripps didn’t bother responding. He recognised the feeling creeping up on him now, a similar building of pressure to before. He grit his teeth together, struggling to keep himself under control.

“You close?” Dakin asked, voice weak.

“Yeah,” came the immediate strained response.

Dakin laughed quietly, but Scripps still felt the reverberations and slowed down with an unhappy noise. It only made Dakin laugh harder.

“Already?” He asked, “I better pick up the pace,” he fisted himself faster, “match my hand’s?”

“Your hands?”

“Yeah,” he hissed out a sharp breath as Scripps began mirroring his speed. “Just like that.”

Scripps fluttered at the praise.  _No_ , he thought,  _no, no._ But it was hard not to think about it when they were so close, both physically and platonically. Not for the first time, Scripps questioned how the actual fuck he’d managed to find himself in this mess.

However, Dakin didn't seem to mind, his face practically the definition of bliss in that moment. The moans he made shook Scripps to his core, his body struggling to keep itself together under the unstoppable pressure. Well, it  _was_ stoppable, but that didn’t mean he wanted it to be.

“God, Scripps,” Dakin said. He let go of the handful of Scripps’ arse, bringing it instead to his own chest. “What I wouldn’t give to hear what you’re thinking.”

But Scripps could hardly reply, his head bowed and eyes shut. He daren't think about the implications of using God's name in a situation like this, or what anyone at church would think of him if they’d known he’d fucked the least religious man on the planet.

“You close?” He asked, unwilling to let himself speak further.

“Yeah,” came a weak, almost tearful, reply, “keep going.”

He grit his teeth, trying to keep a steady pace but failing to match Dakin’s sporadic movements.Dakin keened and Scripps pulled himself forward, shivering like he had dunked his whole body into an ice bath. Dakin’s voice grew higher and higher, his moans weaker and weaker, but his hand continued without fail. Scripps struggled to open his eyes, the feeling of too much and not enough consuming him whole. But once he managed to pry them open he couldn’t look away.

Flushed, out of breath, and hand still in motion, Dakin was flushed like Scripps had never seen before, over his cheeks and nose, down to his neck and chest, leading to his heavily aroused cock still cupped in his blur of a hand. Scripps struggled not to stop, his body still moving on its own free will as he drew toward completion.

He tried half-heartedly to make some sort of warning, a sign maybe, but all that came out was a strangled noise. He grunted like an animal, feeling his body shiver with the all-consuming pleasure. And with a single overwhelmed groan, Scripps slumped forward, exhausted and wrung out, and came.

Dakin clenched, moaned, and threw his head to the side as he came. His fist moved for a moment as he milked himself, forcing himself to clench around Scripps.

Scripps saw white, not quite remembering anything he had seen, but knowing he’d remember it forever. Seeing a close friend that way was surely something someone would never forget.

 

Like that, everything fuzzy-edged and easy, it felt like nothing ever would.

 

Flippantly, Scripps peeled off the condom, tied its end, and threw it in the general direction of the bin. It hit the wall with a thwack, but he was too out of it to care.

Their breathing filled the room for nearly a minute before with a heavy sigh Scripps fell to the side, exhausted in ways he never thought possible. He tried not to let out any noise as he withdrew from Dakin’s body, but it was more of a reflex than anything to groan.

Dakin stayed blissfully silent.

Finding his voice, no matter how he tried, proved to be a difficult task. But Dakin was hardly jumping up to say something. In fact, Scripps was relatively certain Dakin was asleep, come over his stomach and all.

He was mistaken.

“Fuck,” said a weak voice, mingling with the panting. Dakin rubbed the back of his hands over his eyes, carefully avoiding the mixture lube and come still on his fingers.

“Yeah?” Scripps said, unable to elaborate further.

“Yeah,” Dakin replied, seemingly understanding even when Scripps hadn’t continued.

Another minute passed.

By now it was dark outside, the gentle yellow of the street lamps casting vague shadows on the ceiling, while shrouding the rest of the room in darkness.

Looking at Dakin he couldn't help but feel a little too attached to him. His eyelashes looked almost inhumanly thick, highlighted by the light spilling into the room.

 _This is the appeal,_ he thought to himself,  _of sex._  Surely there was no other reason? The trust of being with someone intimately was something to do with it, he knew, but the afterglow out shone it all. He felt as if all his bones were gone, and that his skin was made of the finest china, cool and unnatural. And he could only assume Dakin felt the same. He felt… almost immortal.

Leaning up on his elbows, Dakin sighed into the darkness, his breathing more regular and relaxed. He finally opened his eyes and when he looked at Scripps then, darkly and mysterious, he asked a question that at the surface level was simple, but oh so complex underneath: “you enjoy it, then? You not going to run off to God and beg for forgiveness?”

Tactically, he said, “you're not nefarious, Dakin. You're no demon.”

“Maybe not,” Dakin leaned over him, letting their chests gently rest against one another, “But that doesn't mean the Big Man upstairs will want me putting fingers in your honey.”

Gently, like he was scared Scripps would bolt an any moment, Dakin rested his head on Scripps’ chest, his ear pressed up on him to listen to his slowing heartbeat. “But you enjoyed it?” Dakin asked again, and this time it was less of an impossible response.

It was hard to think of anything to say at first, but after a moment he said, quietly, “yes.”

And it seemed to take Dakin by surprise, based on the way his eyebrows raised and his eyes widened. “You did?” he questioned, almost in disbelief, “That’s good. Good to know my plucking flower skills are as good as I've been lead to believe.”

Scripps scoffed, “Hardly plucking flowers there, mate. More like-”

“Ploughing fields?”

“No!” he yelled, his voice being lost in the manic laughter. Dakin slapped one of his still-wet hands on the bed and used it as leverage to get up. His feet hit the floor and he stretched leisurely, as a cat would, before padding over to the on-suite. Scripps let his eyes slip shut again, revelling in the gently prickling of his skin and listening to the strange combination of the tap running and the traffic outside.

Dakin left the bathroom and went to the end of the bed, lifting one pair of jeans, inspecting them, before throwing them to the side when he saw that they weren't his.

In a cool moment of his collective thoughts, Scripps spoke up, “Are you leaving?”

There was a pause, heavy with the darkness surrounding them, but also with some unknown emotion he couldn't quite articulate during the moment. “Yeah.” Dakin said, his body language refusing to elaborate further. He dragged up his jeans, neglecting to separate his briefs from them before he did, and Scripps watched him, his face as aggressively neutral as he could muster.

Still shirtless and bold as ever, Dakin pressed his thumbs into his jeans and turned his body at an angle before looking back at Scripps. It was a move that he could tell was practiced, his movements smooth, fluid. But it didn't impress him.

Then, reverting to the same shameless and playful self as before, Dakin smiled at him. And Scripps smiled back, strangely unashamed and open in comparison to his more on-the-ball self.

“See you around?” Dakin finally said, praising it like a question.

While the phrasing left a lot to be desired, Scripps nodded. It felt like the best of outcomes. Dakin was willing to treat this fiasco (not a fiasco. Fiasco implied it was a humiliating failure, but it was more like an embarrassing success) as another one off deal - as something he was willing to do for the sake of being a friend, and not for some ulterior motive.

But why would Dakin need an ulterior motive? His main motive was to fuck someone and disappear, the former of which he had completed, and the latter he was in the process of executing now.

“The key’s still in the door,” Scripps settled on saying, “Lock it behind you, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dakin left the room, and with a gentle hoof of an exhale Scripps fully settled back into the sheets, letting his mind wonder. He could hear Dakin shuffling about, moving around and picking up his discarded belongings. The front door unlocked, the key withdrew, and Dakin stepped out into the hallway. With a click, it shut, and after the door was locked the letterbox clanked and his keys entered the apartment once more.

The coiling inside of him had stopped, he realised. No more snake. No more turning and twisting like a river.. And he noticed dimly the rain had stopped.

With a tone final acceptance, Scripps pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and sighed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! this work took around three or four months for me to finish, so I really do appriciate the kudos, comments and bookmarks. Who knows, if this one gets popular I might even make another really long fic. Feedback matters! Thank you!
> 
> Quotes:
> 
> "It seemed to Perry as though he existed ‘deep under-water’ - perhaps because the Row `usually was as grey and quiet as the ocean depths, soundless except for snores, coughs, the whisper of slippered feet, the feathery racket of the pigeons nesting in the prison walls." - Truman Capote, In Cold Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Although I never intended to use this piece in The History Boys October writing thing, it felt fitting to use it as the entry for the final day. The whole piece is finished, and the posting days will be every Sunday. 
> 
> And a special thank you to Vesta for Beta reading.
> 
> As always, please leave kudos, comments and bookmarks. :)
> 
> Quotes:
> 
> "I am not what I am," - William Shakespeare, Othello  
> “Celibacy goes deeper than the flesh," - F. Scott Fitxgerald, This Side of Paradise


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